Heart Abandoned
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: Harry Potter has disappeared. No one knows where he is; meanwhile, the world is falling apart as the Dark Lord takes over, with no one to stop him. Muggles and Muggleborns are disappearing, and the Ministry is doing nothing about it. The only way out is to find Harry, before it's too late-there is no escaping. AU Harry's 5th year. Rated for scenes/language/Rape/death/violence
1. On Death's Doorstep

_**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Although this makes me sad, I must admit it. To any old readers, I will probably not be updating soon, because I personally feel that revising the story from where it is a bit more important right now. I'd rather continue from somewhere good then something I'm not really too proud of right now. Anyway….**_

_**Enjoy!**_

….

"_The human race tends to remember the abuses to which it has been subjected rather than the endearments. What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars."  
>― Bertolt Brecht<em>

"_You know all that sympathy that you feel for an abused child who suffers without a good mom or dad to love and care for them? Well, they don't stay children forever. No one magically becomes an adult the day they turn eighteen. Some people grow up sooner, many grow up later. Some never really do. But just remember that some people in this world are older versions of those same kids we cry for."  
>― Ashly Lorenza <em>

….

_July 12, 1995_

_Even now, I'm not entirely sure why I bother with this nonsense. It most likely has to do with the fact that Hermione once told me that writing out my thoughts would help me think better. Somehow, at least she thinks, writing what is happening to me physically and mentally and emotionally will somehow take away some of the burden I feel. "Everyone," Hermione claims, "is going to keep some sort of journal at one point or another in their life. It is human nature. Writing things down is often the only way to process thoughts and emotions, the only way to work through a problem that appears to be impossible at first glance. Writing will help you, even if you don't feel that way in the beginning." _

_Whether or not writing is helping me isn't entirely clear, but I certainly have gotten into the habit of writing down a few paragraphs every now and then. Usually, it's only to report that all is normal, that I'm still waking up with terrible nightmares every morning. You know, the usual stuff. But recently, I've noticed that I have been writing about more than just daily logs of my nightmares. Such as yesterday, when I spent nearly three pages simply discussing whether or not Dudley officially qualifies as too stupid to truly exist. Does this mean that I have turned into a girl, as I feared a journal would? I'm not sure, but it's not entirely impossible. I can't rule anything out just yet. I'll report back later (if I can) about whether or not this entire process is turning me into some sort of pansy. _

_I have spent a week here at Privet Drive Number 4, and I feel no closer to escape than I did yesterday. My body aches and I am sore all over. In fact, one might think it is a wonder I can write at all, except for the fact that I am clumsily clutching a pen between my left fingers. If this is decipherable, I shall be surprised. My right hand is mostly numb and useless-I fear that it might swell up so much that it pops. (But, then again, maybe Dudley might eat so much food this summer that HE swells up and pops like a balloon. I shan't wish for it, in case we get another case of Aunt Marge, like two years ago. It was funny, but risky.) _

_I cannot wait until I can be back amongst the Weasleys, where I feel at least somewhat safe and cared for. Perhaps I can finally get answers when I am face to face with them. Perhaps I will be given the chance to see Sirius and Remus and ask Dumbledore about what has been going on. I want to be able to talk to someone, to be in the know. I hate being kept in the dark all the time, like I'm some sort of naive child. I'm not an idiot, after all. Only the bloody boy who has now fought Voldemort three times and survived; it's not like I deserve to be told anything, right? My apologies, did I sound sarcastic? Have I also not earned that right, either? _

_It is very hot tonight, hotter than I thought was possible, and that's saying something, seeing as it has been hot all summer. I think I'm going to stick my head out the window for a breeze. Or perhaps I'll just go fill up that old fish tank full of ice and lie in it. Anything is better than sitting here in the heat with an injured arm and a restless mind. Anything is better than discussing the nightmares_.

….

(_Mid-July_)

Harry James Potter sits on the windowsill of his very small and cluttered room. A quick glance around would have shown several old plane models, a broken train, an empty glass bowl, (originally containing fish that Dudley Dursley had swallowed many years ago in a fit over chocolates) and untouched books covered in a thin layer of growing dust. One would have thought the room was a memo to things abandoned, which, if Harry had been in an ironic mood, he might have pointed out. He might have pointed out how true it was to say the "owner" of the room was also abandoned, in a sense. No parents, no one to take care of him. No one around for miles who even was remotely interested in his well-being.

Harry Potter has dark black hair that was a bit too long for his aunt's liking. It has not been combed in several days and looks like a mess. Every now and then, he will run his fingers through the knots in his hair with his left fingers. His green eyes are hidden behind a pair of round-framed glasses, though one of the lenses-the left one- is horribly cracked, and he can barely see out of it. He is skinny, barely even over one hundred pounds, and he's terribly short for a fourteen year old boy. His skin is pale, like he has not seen the light of day in forever, and his clothes are much too big. They hang off him, making him seen even smaller. This small, sleepy teenager has not left his room since the eighth of July. It is now the twenty-ninth of July, and he is miserable.

The boy (who, as I mentioned, is named Harry) rests his head on the cool glass window, curious if, should he dare to try prying it open, he might possibly find an elusive call of cool evening air, even just a slight breeze. Unknowingly, to him, the outside temperature was, if anything, hotter than his own room. But he has been locked inside since the day he came back, only let out twice a day to use the toilet. His eyes rove about, looking for something. They land on the empty owl cage, belonging to Hedwig. Harry had sent Hedwig with specific instructions to only deliver "wherever Ron and Hermione's letter's come from," He doesn't want her getting hurt, or lost or even killed. Thinking this, he let out a sharp laugh, smirking at the fact that he was more concerned for his bird than himself. Just then, pain shoots up his side and his forehead and he jerks, cursing his uncle and the night in the graveyard when...

'Don't think about that.' He told himself, holding in a yawn. 'Don't think about it.' He is trying to avoid sleep, resting against the cool glass. He is trying to jerk himself awake, but he could feel himself slipping, eyes fluttering. But he was so tired. So tired. He moves slightly, carefully. Not carefully enough, for another deep, sharp pain, searing up his side. His right arm has been twisted, broken. The fingers are thick, sausage-like, and send shooting pain through his arm. The entire thing is a purplish-red, bordering almost on blue.

He wonders if his arm will die. If it can die while he remains alive. He hadn't been able to pick anything up, or write back to Ron or Hermione in any of their letters. No doubt, they are worried for him, but he would never be able to find out, because Hedwig has not come back for nearly two weeks and he has no desire to deal with their worry.

Harry closes his eyes, trying to block out the pain in his arm, but all he can do is remember. Remember the first day of break, walking through the front door of Privet Driver, Number 4.

_His uncle, pushing him up against the wall. Harry is screaming, telling him to stop. Uncle Vernon smirks, applying even more pressure. Harry tries to push him away, but Uncle Vernon is too big, too ready to hurt Harry. Eager for the pain. Harry can smell alcohol on his breath, only small amounts but it is still detectable, and he knows in that second that things have suddenly changed. Uncle Vernon is not thinking rationally, and there is nothing Harry can do to stop him.  
>"Get your wand, freak. Get your wand and stop me." Uncle Vernon taunts him, knowing Harry's arm, pinned to the wall, and cannot reach into his pocket. Harry is defenseless against a man nearly three times his size. Harry can't reach into his pocket and it feels like his arm is on fire. He wonders if his uncle is going to kill him. His arm snaps, twisting and turning the wrong way. Tears burst to his eyes, making Uncle Vernon laugh harder. <em>

_Aunt Petunia stands in the doorway of the kitchen, carefully avoiding making eye contact. She has always done this. Walking away when Uncle Vernon slapped him, kicked him, bruised him, even when Harry was just seven or eight years old. She thinks that if she doesn't watch, she's not guilty. Harry doesn't know where Dudley is. He's actually rather glad, knowing that if his cousin were here he'd probably be kicking at Harry, too. It goes on for ten, twenty minutes, but it feels like hours. When Uncle Vernon's done, he turns to his wife, still smirking, still ready to snarl._

"_Put him in his room, Petunia. Lock the door. I don't want him out of that room. I don't want to see his little freak face or hear his voice. Keep his away from me, do you understand?" _

_He is picked up from the floor by Aunt Petunia and, none too kindly, escorted upstairs to the smallest bedroom, where Harry usually stays during the holidays. The sheets are lying in a bundle on the bed, and his calendars have been ripped down, but other than that, it appears to be the same. The cat flap is there, and so are the bars on his window. Aunt Petunia does not look at him as he settles painfully at his desk chair. _

"_You will behave yourself, understood?" she asks, staring at a spot just over his head. Her blue eyes seem strained, her voice tight. She holds herself with a sense of discomfort, but still has her usually look of superiority, even now that she has proven herself to be as much a coward as usual. _

"_Yes, Aunt Petunia," he says petulantly, already mentally prepared for a month and a half of boredom tinged with murmurs of pain. This is not the first time he has come home to a beating, but it is the worst yet. Nothing seems too broken, though, just badly bruised. He will survive, no doubt. Lucky him, getting to live another day in this miserable house. This is why he keeps calendars, waiting desperately for the day he can go to Hogwarts, and then, in a few years, grow up and leave Privet Drive forever, never to return. _  
>He can't feel his arm, even now, two weeks later, other than the pain, always coursing through him. He wants to scream, but he can't find the energy in him. His head hurts, a dull pounding in the back of his head. Somehow, though, he can't help but think he's lucky. Luckier, certainly, than Cedric Diggory. Anyone would rather have a useless arm over being dead. But Cedric didn't have that choice.<p>

Harry rubs at his eyes with his left hand, his eyes fluttering. He has been so tired recently, always wanting to sleep. Perhaps it was a side effect of the pain in his arm; his body's natural way of repairing itself, taking its toll on Harry's energy levels as he tried to fix his arm. He yawned, not wanting to think about anything besides sleep. His eyes shut of their own accord, and he doesn't fight, too tired. His body is exhausted from three days of trying to keep awake. Trying to avoid the dream that always comes when he sleeps. This time, however, proves no better than any other.

_Harry and Cedric and the short figure are looking at one another. Cedric turns to Harry, clearly to ask what was going on. Harry shakes himself. "Wake up, Potter. Wake up!" He hates this dream, the one  
>that's come every night for almost a week. He knows it by heart now. It is etched into his mind, every detail, and every little second. He knows what will happen, what always happens every time he closes his eyes and dreams this dream.<br>He hates it. Hates the way it makes him feel useless and childish, completely helpless. In need of others, he can't even cry out for help. Every time, Harry wakes up in tears and hates himself even more for not being able to get over a simple dream. A dream of his friend, dying, but still a dream. He needed to be stronger.  
>And then, without warning, Harry's scar explodes with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in all his life; his wand slips from his fingers as he put his hands over his face; his knees buckle; he sinks to the ground and he could see nothing at all; his head was about to split open. The pain is unbearable and his eyes roll back into his head. He's unconscious, but not for long. Too soon, only seconds later, he<br>wakes up. The pain continues. From far away, above his head, he heard a high, cold voice say, "Kill  
>the spare." "No!" he moans, trying to escape the dream. "Stop! Not<br>now!"  
>A swishing noise and a second voice, which screeched the words to the night: "Avada Kedavra!" He knows this voice. <em>

"_Wormtail!" he shrieks, despite the fact that his father's old friend has yet to respond to  
>another dream. A blast of green light blazed through Harry's eyelids, and he heard something heavy fall to the ground beside him; he knows it is Cedric's body, but he can't bear to look. The pain in his scar reached such a pitch that he retched, and then it diminished; terrified of what he was about to see, he opened his stinging eyes. The body, the one he sees every night. He knows it's there, even beyond his pleading wishes that just once it would be otherwise. Cedric was lying, totally spread out, his limbs limp and lifeless, on the ground beside him. He was dead. Harry is screaming, shaking, and trying to wake himself up. For a second that contained an eternity, Harry stares into Cedric's face. (As he must, for even in dreams, he still must follow through everything, every little action.) He's staring at open gray eyes, blank and expressionless, clearly dead, at his half-open mouth, which looked slightly surprised.<em>

_'As though he doesn't understand he's dead' Harry thinks to himself, watching with frightened eyes. But, then, who wouldn't be surprised that suddenly they weren't breathing and their body was cooling. Who wouldn't be shocked to see mourners, people crying over your death? No teenager expect to die, not yet. Not in such a cruel, inhuman manner. Just gone in a second, no way to prepare for it. _  
>Harry wakes up when his head crashes against the windowsill, making a sickening cracking sound.<br>He can hear his uncle, still downstairs. The man's so heavy, anyone could hear him. Harry's surprised the floor doesn't shake with every footstep. And then, the door flies open and his uncle is grinning at him, leering. It's a weird sight, that creepy, twisted look. As if Uncle Vernon wasn't quite all there. As if he wasn't all there. A shiver runs through Harry, as he backs up against the wall, trying to hide. It's a ridiculous idea. There's nowhere to hide. His uncle comes closer, that twisted grin plastered over his face. Harry wonders briefly if Uncle Vernon is drunk. But the clear look to his eye tells otherwise. Vernon Dursley wasn't drunk, not completely anyway. He has probably had a few drinks and now he is bored. A bored, slightly drunk Vernon scares the hell out of Harry, as this means endless possibilities for pain, for more torture and punishments. They only ever came when it got dark. Usually, Aunt Petunia was here to at least calm Uncle Vernon down, but Aunt Petunia had taken Dudley out to talk with his school's nurse. And Harry has broken a rule, by making noise. Uncle Vernon wants him to stop. He will stop, after Uncle Vernon was done with him.  
>"Boy!" roars Uncle Vernon. Harry doesn't even have time to blink before the punches start. Crack! To the head. Crack! His ribs. Snap! His knee pops as he falls to the ground, shaking. Harry screams, trying to block himself, but his arm is merely pushed out of the way, fists flying all over his body. He tries to fight back, but is only thrown back onto the floor. He is sobbing now, sobbing for someone, anyone, to come help him, but no one does. There is only Uncle Vernon, who laughs as he tosses his large body onto Harry. Each blow comes with an insult.<p>

"Freak!" A punch to the head. "Wizard!" Kick to the knee, and it gives way, his body no longer willing to support him. "Abnormal little alien!" Fingers around his neck, and he can't even see any more. "Freeloader!" His head is spinning, he feels sick. Lights dance around him as he tries to maintain consciousness. "Trying to hurt my son!" Don't want to pass out, because Uncle Vernon will only hurt him worse if he does. "Do you think anyone cares? That anyone _pities _you? No one gives a damn, Potter!" Another punch to the chest, and he can smell alcohol, can feel his blood pouring, knows that this is the end. "No one wants to see you live!"

It takes ten minutes for Harry to pass out, blood seeping into the carpeting, turning the moldy grey into a dark red. It is a small mercy, that he doesn't feel the pain for too long. He doesn't have to suffer for too long. Vernon smirks, chest heaving. The little freak has passed out. He feels elated. Ecstatic, almost. Vernon spits on the boy's back, which is now covered in blood. He has half a dozen scratches (from the few seconds he'd tried to fight back) and several bones were broken. All of this is the cause for why Vernon puffs out his chest, the reason for his sudden emotional surge of power. He kicks the boy in the head, almost mesmerised by the blood that flows out. Fascinated, as the very life seems to drain away.  
>Vernon leans over to look at the boy's face. It is bloated and purple. A large bruise covers most of his face and his glasses have been flung against the wall. He checks for a heartbeat, but finds nothing. The<br>boy, who is not really a boy but a monster, is dead. The monster who has ruined his family is now dead. "The boy has gotten what he deserved," he snickers and begins walking off. Then, pausing, he turns  
>to look back at the boy, slumped on the floor. He has to get rid of it. No one can find out, not the cops, not one of the little freak's friends. No one.<br>"I'm going to get the car started, alright?" he says, giggling, the alcohol tingling in his body. Or was that the surge of power he feels? Either way, it's nice and he gives the body another kick, just to feel even better. "Stay right here. I just have to find my keys. And then we'll go on a little trip, alright? Alright, boy?" He smirks to himself and, in the kitchen, grabs another can of beer. Then, finding an old, mottled blanket, he stomps back upstairs, humming to himself. He feels happier than he'd felt in…..almost fourteen years.  
>"Nighty-night, Potter." He laughs, wrapping the body up. "Don't let the bed bugs bite," he says, stuttering down the stairs and towards the car, feeling somewhat drunk and yet so great. Fourteen years and finally, no more Potter. He was free...they were all free. Free from the weirdness and the birds and the lies. Free from the strange people on their doorstep. Free from Potter.<p>

….

_**Well, I hope you enjoyed the first (heavily revised) chapter of what has been a year and a half long project for me. Only time will tell how long this will all take. Another year? Another TWO, God forbid? It's not that I don't like this story, (I do, to some extent) but I feel that...walking into this at 13, nearly 14, years of age, I didn't really know what I was doing. This was my first full length story, and right now, I can barely stand to read what I've written. If you look at some of my newer work, I hope it is very easy to tell I have improved greatly since starting out back in September of 2011, when I was a foolish young eighth grader. Granted, I'm still a foolish young ninth grader, but experience (and harsh critics for friends) have made me better at writing. **_

_**Until next time...Lana, over and out. **_


	2. What Remains

_**I was actually tempted to put this entire chapter into binary, just for practice. I need practice...really badly. **_

_**Anyway, this is the (heavily revised) second chapter of Ultimum Perditum, which I like to call...well, that little Latin name up there. :) Because, you know, I'm mean and I make all my titles all Latin-y and stuff. **_

_**It's kind of funny how hesitant I used to be about cussing, back when I first started at fourteen. Never fear, readers, I now cuss like crazy and I'm into weird couples and stuff. I'm fifteen now, suckas! Oh! **_

….

"Severus, Arabella just stopped by to tell me something very interesting. Something very unusual about Harry that I thought might concern you." says Dumbledore, his blue eyes boring Severus' black ones. The older man looks worried, haggard. Most likely, Severus thinks, tired and feeling a tad bit closer to his age, as opposed to usually feeling like he was still a student, his eyes always twinkling as if he knew a particularly odd secret. His strange, annoying habit of speaking in riddles, and always offering everyone he met sweets, usually drove the Potions Master insane. Severus thought that he quite liked this calmed Dumbledore better. He was easier to negotiate with, certainly.  
>"Such as? What, has the Potter boy been messing about, terrorizing the neighborhood?" Severus can't allow more than a few minutes to pass after their names were mentioned without insulting one of the<br>Marauders and their heirs. It was not that Severus Snape was a catty person, simply bitter. He was, regardless of how ridiculous it sounded, simply angered. He has always hated Potter and the attention the boy received. What had _Potter _ever done in life, besides screw around in class and annoy the hell out of Severus? And now, here he was, being called in to waste time over the idiotic Gryffindor? "Albus, I am not here to waste time. If we're just in here to do a simple check-up on him, I'm sure Black would be more than willing to help. It's not like Potter's been causing _too _much trouble at home, has he? Saving his little schemes for school every year."  
>"No. Quite the opposite, actually, Severus. It is not that Harry is in <em>trouble<em>, so much as the fact that we don't know _where _he is. Hestia has reported that the Dursleys have not been home for at least three days. It would appear that the boy's disappeared, his family with him. As you know, we have guards posted at every available moment, making sure that Mr. Potter is safe as much as possible. And, yet, despite all our efforts, we seem to have lost track of both Mr. Potter and his extended family."

Severus holds back a snort of contempt. Dumbledore has called him in over something as simply and childish as this? People went on vacations, it's what they did. Not that his family had ever gone on vacations themselves, but still, the Dursleys probably went all the time, Potter with them. Why should this be a matter of so much important that Severus need be interrupted from his studies and potion makings? He was wasting his time playing _baby-sitter _for Potter?  
>"Potter gets in trouble wherever he goes, with whoever he interacts with. But, still, it is summer, Dumbledore, you know that. I wouldn't be surprised if his Muggle family has taken off on a holiday. After all, it's hot in England, many people like to escape elsewhere for a holiday reprieve, after all." The exact reason why he had tucked himself into his quiet, cool dungeons. No excess heat, no annoying little Gryffindors. And yet, it appeared the annoying little Gryffindors were following him, even in what was supposed to be nice, idiot-free summers, far away from snot-nosed brats blowing up their cauldrons.<br>"Severus, you don't understand. Harry Potter has disappeared, without a trace, and no one seems able to find him. Arabella stopped by the house this morning and it was empty, completely empty of human life. She snuck up to Harry's room, but it's clean. Not a single possession of his left. Not even in the trash bins outside."  
>"The boy's disappeared, you mean?" Not that Severus particularly cared, but then, this was the precious Boy-Who-Lived, wasn't it? The Golden Boy, the Chosen one. Dumbledore had made it very clear from the beginning that Harry Potter was to be protected, but not coddled. He would one day be very important, which is why Potter was the only student Severus knew of who had ever had guards monitoring his every movement. And yet, how great were these guards if three Muggles and a teenage boy managed to slip by them, undetected?<br>"Yes, Severus. And at the fear of sounding redundant, we have to find him-and fast. I've got as much of the Order as I can out looking for him. He is crucial to the plan I have been discussing with you. The _greater good_, if you are so inclined to put it that way."  
>"Who?" Better to know both his allies and enemies, know who he was working with on both sides. That way, he would be able to recognise those on his sides and react accordingly.<br>"Remus, Minerva, Alastor, Filius, Mundungus Fletcher. Others whom I can't recall at this moment, though all the names aren't too terribly important."  
>'That's a lie,' Severus thinks to himself. 'Dumbledore has never forgotten anything. He has flawless memory.' Clearly this meant Severus was not to know everything. No, only the Puppet Master Dumbledore could know everyone involved, he alone could know all the facts. Severus knew most people would see this as being paranoid, but he had known Dumbledore for over twenty years. He knew Dumbledore wanted to be in control, but maintain just enough room in the background. Let others <em>think <em>they were in control.

'But then again," Severus thinks to himself, find it rather hard not to smile cruelly to himself, 'he's most likely not chosen Black, the mongrel.' It would be satisfying, petty yes, but satisfying to smirk at the dog while he was down, knowing it would be just one more thing that Black would be kept out of. (No one had ever accused Snape of being mature when it came to Black and Potter.)  
>"And you need me because…what? I have some great tracking skill? I have some wonderful connection with Mr. Potter that will somehow lead me directly to him? I'm not your hunting dog, Dumbledore. I can't even <em>stand <em>the boy; what makes you think that I want anything to do with him?"  
>Dumbledore shakes his head. "I do not think you will <em>want <em>to find him, Severus, but I know you, above all others, will be able to. I have a feeling you will be able to find him, Severus, before anyone else. You and Harry come from similar backgrounds, from less than perfect households. Perhaps you have an idea on where he would run off to."  
>Severus bristled, reminded of the fists that once flew at him. He had been weak, unprotected, his mother standing by the side. There was always pain, so much pain. He shook himself, grumbling. Now was not the time to get caught up in twenty year old memories. "Are you implying that I got so fed up with my father, I would be likely to run away?" The words are spoken around clenched teeth. He's annoyed that, with just a few words, Albus can get a rise out of him. Even unintentionally. (Severus isn't so sure this is unintentional.)<br>"Of course not. I'm saying that you both come from similar family situations. Abandoned, unloved. Unwanted. Bullied-"  
>"SHUT UP!" Severus yells, effectively quieting his old headmaster. "I know how I grew up! I know how I was beaten and shoved and bullied and everything else! I don't need you reminding me. The boy you want me to find...his bloody <em>father <em>was my bully! And you expect me to _look _for him? "His patience worn, Severus stands up and walked towards the door. "Oh, and Albus?"  
>The headmaster looks up, calm and registered, as if nothing had just happened. It infuriates Severus to no end, watching the complacent expression on the old man's face.<br>"I'll look for the boy. I hate him, but I'll look for him. But then, you already knew that, didn't you? You're already aware we're going to do exactly what you want, simply because you're Dumbledore and  
>somehow, somehow we all owe you. "The door slams shut behind him, echoing. Somehow, this does not stop the words from rushing back at him. Beaten. Abused. Abandoned. Unloved. Unwanted. Hated.<br>He's nothing like the Potter boy, the pampered little brat. Severus will not allow that.

"Hestia was supposed to be watching him! She was supposed to protect him!" shouts the man with the long, dark curly hair. His face is pinched and pale, as if he'd spent several years away from the light. Sirius Black is thin and ill-looking. He is glaring at Hestia, who is also looking back at him defiantly, her lips pursed in anger. "Why wasn't she there?"  
>"I told you, Sirius! I was there. The entire time. And I never saw anyone leave or come into that house. Trust me, if that whale of a Muggle had left, I would have noticed. Ask Arabella! She says the house was empty! Harry's gone and I'm sorry for it, but it's not entirely our fault."<br>Sirius huffs, and glares at her. "It is your fault. You only had one bloody job! To protect a fifteen year old boy who wasn't even allowed to do magic. How hard can that be? You sit down in a bush and watch a house for twelve damn hours!"  
>"Not that you would know what guard duty is like, now would you, Black?" smirks Severus from his seat, protected by an entire table. The two men have been throwing daggers at each other since the beginning of the meeting. Severus had been cold and rude to Sirius ever since he'd arrived, clearing up any suspicion on how he would be treating Sirius. (Sirius had not made the situation any better, making smart-alack remarks about certain snakes in the room.)<br>"Sirius, Padfoot, please. Calm down. I'm sure if Hestia says she was there the entire time, she was probably there, the entire time. The question is not who's to blame, but how Vernon Dursley got his nephew out of the house without Hestia noticing." Remus mutters, sighing quietly to himself. They'd been having this same argument for close to an hour, the same thoughts circling around.  
>Sirius glared at his old friend, arms crossed. Remus was strongly reminded of a younger Sirius, who was prone to latching onto an idea and clinging to it until it was over. Sirius was, is willing to run<br>himself into the ground to find his godson. That was probably exactly why Dumbledore hadn't set him down on the list of people to look for Harry. Speaking of which, when would they be able to go out and look for Harry? The longer they waited, the more likely Harry would be dead when, if they got to him?  
>Remus glances around at the others sitting at the table. McGonagall is staring straight ahead, ignoring her ex-student's rantings. Severus sits there, smirking. Dumbledore sits calmly, waiting. He's perfectly fine with waiting. As long as Sirius didn't go past simply yelling, Dumbledore would probably listen to him yell all day long.<br>Dumbledore coughed just then, stands up, speaking quietly, "Sirius," and with that basic word, calms the Animagus down. If not calm, at least quiet. "I've told you my reasons for not allowing you outside. It is dangerous. You could get caught-" Sirius snorted here, as if he was above caring. "Listen to me, Sirius. If you get caught, regardless of whether we find Harry or not, you will not be of any help to him."  
>'Smooth,' thinks Remus 'Play his "Protect Harry" card.' It's a low blow, and everyone knows it. Harry is Sirius' last link to Lily and James, and he clung to the teenager like an overprotective mother. Any time Harry's name was mentioned, Sirius would jump to attention, ready to defend his godson.<br>Sirius has gone rather red in the face, staring up at Dumbledore with a look that was a mixture of anger and disgust. His shoulders were quivering and he seems ready to stomp out, or break something. The other members of the Order sit there, curious. They're all anxious to see if Sirius would blow up again. And blow up again he did.  
>"I DON'T CARE IF I GET CAUGHT, DUMBLEDORE! I DON'T GIVE A DAMN! YOU THINK I CARE?" He's throwing plates everywhere, smashing them against the wall with every yell. "YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK IF I GET CAUGHT? IT WON'T MATTER! IT WON'T! HARRY'S…and here, his voice died, falling to a whisper, as if, if he didn't yell it, maybe it wasn't true, what he was saying. Harry's dead…you know that, don't you, Albus? That that stupid, fat Muggle did what Voldemort couldn't? Harry's dead. He didn't need our protection or for us to guard him twenty-fourseven...he needed us to take him from that house. He didn't need to be there." And then, they're watching a child, the way Sirius sinks to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Remus has to look away, can't think of what Sirius is saying, for fear that he will throw up. It's more than disgusting, it is horrifying, thinking of Harry's little body dumped on the side of the road.

His eyes fall on Dumbledore, who still sits there, as if oblivious to the man's sobs or the people moving to comfort him. And in that moment, Remus realizes something. Dumbledore does know that Harry's dead, or close to it. He's firmly aware of what Vernon Dursley has done, has been doing to Harry, possibly for years.  
>"You knew, didn't you?" he growls at his old headmaster, "You knew? This entire time, you were fully aware that they were beating up a little boy? Abusing their own <em>nephew<em>, like he was no better than garbage." He's disgusted, almost betrayed somehow. And, despite knowing it's near the full moon and that's why he's so tense, he still wants to leap up and run off. But he can't, because he's Remus Lupin, the calm one. Moony, the Marauder that sits and waits. The one that was logical, the one that did absolutely _fucking _nothing.

Dumbledore shakes his head. "It is part of a plan of mine. Harry needed to be raised the way he was. Otherwise, he will not step forward and claim his role in our war against Voldemort. I regret some of the actions I no doubt believe were performed against him, but in the scheme of things, I suspect we will have all found them necessary."  
>Remus feels odd. He realizes he's, right now, being asked for forgiveness, from Dumbledore. The older man is pleading that they forgive him. As if it was theirs' to forgive.<br>"Don't make excuses for us, Albus. We don't _need _excuses-they won't bring Potter back. Ask Potter for _his _forgiveness, when you find his dead body in a river. Ask Potter to forgive you when you find him, on the side of the road, beaten and bloody." says Severus, standing up. His face is impassive, smooth. Uncaring.

Dumbledore nods, and then he's suddenly the one in charge again. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, leader of the Order of the Phoenix. Possible unintentional accomplice in the murder of a teenage boy. Remus watches him regain order. He has to admit, while he finds flaws in even the great Albus Dumbledore (who most people seem to believe completely perfect, an unblemished leader, whether because they were blind, or they just didn't feel safe at night thinking any other way), the older man does have a gift at controlling any and every situation.  
>"Remus, I want you and Kingsley to go to Gillingham. Hestia, look in Chichester . Severus, Dunstable -." Remus nodded, blocking out Dumbledore as he continued listing off where people would track Harry down. Sirius sits in a corner, staring deeply into the bottle of Butterbeer that Emmeline had handed to him. His eyes look dead when Remus walks over to tell him good-bye.<br>"We're leaving now, Pads." Sirius nods, still with that distant look in his eyes.  
>"Don't tell the kids, Molly," he hears Dumbledore say to Mrs. Weasley behind them. "They don't need to know just yet. Of course, they'll figure it out eventually, but give it some time."<br>Sirius chuckles. "Have I ever mentioned that sometimes, I think Dumbledore would have made a great Slytherin? He's very crafty, wouldn't you say? And those kids will figure it out, soon enough. They're a lot like we were, Moony. Too damn smart. Much too smart." Remus shakes his head, walking off. He agrees, but he also thinks Sirius is drunk, something he's not willing to deal with right now. Just now, he had to go save his mate's son.

Albus Dumbledore sits in his office, looking at several different reports from various members of the Order.

_I've not found any sign of him at Number 4, Professor. His room is completely bare, all signs of life gone. I found a bit of blood in the left corner, farthest away from the door, and some on the windowsill, but not enough to worry me. His Invisibility Cloak was laying on a cot in the cupboard under the stairs, along with his trunk. It appears as if it's not been touched since summer began. The cupboard door was locked._

._  
>We looked in Shoreham-by-Sea, as you suspected. We questioned some locals (they were Obliviated after) but no one recalls seeing anyone of the Dursley's stature.<em>

._  
>Not one sign in Aldershot. I don't think the Muggles have ever been anywhere near him.<em>

._  
>Nothing in Staines. Someone said the name sounded familiar, but that they didn't know any Vernon or Petunia, nor have they seen anyone who looks like Dursley. Not sure how that would help, but someone did claim that they might have seen a car that matches the description we showed them. <em>

.  
><em>Professor, Tonks and I looked in Chichester, but no one knows of any Dursleys. They claim they have never heard or seen of the family. I'm not entirely sure what to do next. Is it possible that they might not even have Potter anymore? <em>

_._  
>He sighed, rubbing at his eyes. It was two in the morning, but he couldn't go to sleep, too busy pacing about, wondering. Where on earth was Harry Potter? The fate of the Wizarding World was resting on one boy's shoulders, and no one had any idea where he was. Albus' eyes fell on one of the last letters, desperate for answers.<br>_We were in the Wiltshire area, near where the Malfoy family lives. A woman in the area, Muggle, believes she saw someone who fits Vernon Dursley's stature in a blue van in a field a few miles from her house. He stopped for a while, wandered around, and then drove off. Possibly burying Potter on the side of the road? Your call, sir. _

.  
>He scans the letter three times, forehead creased. What does this mean? Has Harry Potter been left in Wiltshire? And what state would he be found in? Dead, alive? Dying? Either way, they have to get to Wiltshire, and as fast as is humanly possible. If Harry Potter was anywhere near Malfoy Manor, he was in danger. Even if the Malfoys claimed they were amongst the light-sided part of the Wizarding World, Dumbledore has faced Lucius before, unmasked and in the process of torturing a Muggleborn boy for information.<p>

….

_**And this is where it gets complicated, being a Fanfiction writer. You're either going to yell at me for making everyone OOC or Dumbledore-bashing or you'll say it was a good idea. Honestly, it appeared as the most natural idea, to me. Dumbledore has always struck me as a Puppet Master. Sorry…..it's part of the story. I don't really approve of this whole 'Dumbledore is evil & controls & manipulates everyone into doing what he wants'. I think he does that to (some) extent, but he's not always making people do what he wants them to. He usually has fairly logical reasons, doesn't he? **_

_**I'm also especially bad at writing Severus Snape in general. See Love (chapter 2) for further proof. **_


	3. Rules Are Meant to Be Broken

It would appear the Dursleys had inefficiently disappeared, despite an obvious lack in _any_ magical talent. No one could locate the family, and, upon polite questioning by Hestia Jones and Arabella Figg, no one was aware of any plans made by the Muggle family. They hadn't requested Number 6 to "please water the yard" while they were gone, nor given any explanation as to their sudden decision to run off.

No, the Dursleys had most certainly disappeared, Harry Potter's location along with them.

Ron Weasley stands at the balcony of the second floor of Grimmauld Place, Number 12. He had seen Order members rushing in and out of the kitchen (the headquarters of this mysterious group) for the past week. Everyone seemed frantic, twitchy. Mrs. Weasley fidgeted as she handed out food each night, and once, Mr. Weasley had rushed off in the middle of the night.

Sirius sat through everything glum-faced, with a Butterbeer in hand. Hermione seemed worried that something had happened to Harry.

"Why else would Sirius be so distraught? Why would the Order be so frantic? Something's happened with Harry, and they're trying to fix whatever it is." she says wringing her hands, pacing the floor.

Ron ignored her, scrubbing at the handrail furiously, as if that would take away the words. Nothing could have happened to Harry. That wasn't possible. The Order was protecting him, weren't they?

"Maybe Sirius is just frustrated he's not able to leave the house like everyone else. After all, you've seen them rushing about, haven't you, Hermione? If it were me, it would drive me crazy to not be allowed to leave the house. Watching everyone else allowed to? Absolute murder," said Ginny, pausing her fiddling with her collar.

Fred and George nodded, lowering their Extendable Ear a little lower. The Ear was a newer invention of his brothers', allowing the five teens to eavesdrop on the Order's discussions. Not that they had gotten much out of the meetings. The door was very thick and obviously charmed, and it didn't help that Crookshanks had already eaten two of the Ears. They had only managed to hear rather loud bangs and raised voices.

"I wish you wouldn't use those," shivered Hermione, staring edgily at the fleshy, pink Ears. "They give me the creeps."

Fred (George?) gave Hermione a grin and waved the Ear towards her. She flinched and stepped back to where Ron was.

"I'm simply just saying, I think the Order's up to something! They've been meeting for days now, and your dad keeps leaving. Surely you must be at least a tad suspicious?"

The Weasley's looked at each other, then nodded.

"Yeah, but it's not as if us Weasley's aren't up to being even a little suspicious and sneaky. Take Perce, for example." said George. (Fred?)

Just then, the other twin shushed Hermione and his brother, gesturing at the Ear, which was clearly picking up on a conversation below, the yellow line quivering.

They clearly hear Hestia Jones, who sounds nervous and on edge.

"I told you, Sirius, we can't find the Muggles anywhere. They've disappeared, along with Harry."

_They've disappeared, along with Harry. _Ron stumbles backwards, as if slapped. His head spins and there's a roaring in his ears. He's dimly aware of someone grabbing him by him armpits and dragging him off somewhere.

There's a thump and he's set down on a bed.

"You ever considered losing some weight, Ronniekins?" asks his brother, George. Ron doesn't answer, head still spinning. _Along with Harry. They've disappeared, along with Harry. Along with Harry. _

"Where'd they go, the Muggles?" he asks. He sees George shrug and plop down on the bed next to him bed.

"Why'd they take Harry? School's starting soon, he needs to come back, now." And though he's aware his voice sounds whiny, he doesn't care. His best mate's gone and it didn't sound like the Order was doing much.

"I'm sure Dumbledore knows what to do, Ron. He's really smart, he'll figure it out."

"Yeah but..." Ron can't explain his suspicions, how he thinks Harry's Muggle family beats him. "What if he's dead?" he whispers, looking at George frantically. "What if they've killed him? The Muggles, they like to hurt Harry. Really bad, I mean. Bloody hell, George, what if they've killed him?"

Ron tries to jump off the bed and out of the room, but George grabs him around the waist, holding him in place. There's a dull thud as they both crash onto the floor.

"We're not going to just barge into an Order meeting, Ronnie. Mum would kill us, you know."

Ron relaxes and nods, shoulders slumping, his back leaning against the bed, his ear hurting. He had not considered interrupting the meeting, so much as running from Grimmauld Place to hunt down his friend.

"You don't understand," he whispers, half to himself.

George gives him a blank look. "Understand what, Ronniekins?"

"What if it were Fred missing? What if Fred was gone? Wouldn't you want to do something? That's how I feel. Something's happened to Harry, I know it-" his voice cracks as he begins crying heavily.

George pats the sobbing teen on the back, wearing an uncomfortable look on his face. He's not used to protecting his younger brother this way.

"Don't worry, Ronnie. The Order's gonna find him."

Hermione watches George drag Ron away before turning back to the Extendable Ear again.

"-Sirius, we can't just run around England, looking for one teenage boy, even if it is Harry. We need to focus, plan-"

"Forget planning, Remus! Dumbledore just said the boy's in Wiltshire! Podmore said himself he talked to a Muggle woman-"

"Yeah, but I also said she wasn't sure if the van was blue or if she was lookin' at a man or a girl. For all we know, she was intimidated by Mad-Eye here and just lied to us to get us to leave 'er alone." replies someone else.

"The boy's in Wiltshire, what more do we need to know? If he's near the Malfoys, he's probably in more danger than before. All we need to really do is pop over there, look or a boy or a body, and come back-"

"That's ridiculous, Emmeline. Someone's probably already snatched him up, by now."

"Oh, and you're so smart, aren't you, Elphias?"

"Smarter than you, Vance! You think you're so smart-"

"SHUT UP!" says the voice of Severus Snape, sounding annoyed. "Arguing like children isn't going to bring the little brat back any faster. We need to organize a search party, obviously, go to Wiltshire, and look for him."

"He's got a point." says Professor Lupin "Arguing won't help us."

"I can go! I'll look for him-"

"No!" yell several voices, clearly agitated.

Ginny leans over, whispering in Hermione's ear. "How many times do you think Sirius has offered to go?"

"Dunno, but I hope they know what they're doing," says Fred, glancing down at where Crookshanks was sniffing at the Ear. "Hey, Granger! Call off your cat. He's getting in the way, I can't hear them."

"Crookshanks!" Hermione hisses down at the cat, now pawing at the thing, looking horribly offended. "Leave that thing alone! Knock it off!"

"-we think he might be dead-" someone says

"SHHH!" cries Ginny, waving her hand at the other two. "They said something!"

"What?" asks Fred, kneeling closer to the yellow wire.

"I don't know, you idiot, you two were too busy yelling at the cat." she replies calmly, and then stuck her head over the banister, giving a sharp whistle. They watch as Crookshanks looks up, giving them a smarmy, smirky cat look and pads off.

"Now, shut up and listen!" mouths Ginny. They nods and bow their heads closer to the Ear.

"-I'm just saying there's a possibility that when we find the Potter boy, he might not be, you know, _ok_."

"Yes, but what if we decide Harry _is_ dead, so we stop looking for him, and it turns out he _is alive_."

"Clearly, Sturgis, we don't plan on making assumptions. We're going to look for him, no matter what your personal beliefs are." says Snape, and the three Gryffindors can practically hear the sneer in his voice.

"But say someone believes the boy to be dead, so they don't look as hard as they should?-"

"Are you implying some of us won't be trying as much as you think we should, Dedalus?"

"No, I'm just saying, it could effect the chances of finding the boy in time."

"In other words, you think he's dead. Don't you, Dedalus?"

"Well, I...-"

There's a crashing sound, a thud upstairs, and the talking stops suddenly. The dramatic silence almost makes Hermione want to throw something, just to hear noise, but her hands settle by her side, clenched.

"I'll go upstairs, check on the kids," says Mrs. Weasley, a scraping sound, like a chair across cement, sounding through the Extendable Ear.

Fred rushes into action, whipping the Ear up and Apparating away with a small _pop!_

Ginny and Hermione scurry back to their bedroom, breathing heavily.

Hermione drops onto her bed, trying to hold back the tears.

_'Harry might be dead,'_ she thinks, tucking her knees up, staring at the chipped, grey ceiling. '_His uncle might have killed him. If he's not dead now, he will be soon.'_ Somehow, even thinking it, the idea sounds ridiculous. Harry can't _be_ dead. He's Harry. He's supposed to be strong. Brave. Important. _Alive_.

What were they supposed to do if he wasn't? Where were they supposed to go after finding out Harry Potter was dead?

And what would Voldemort do?


	4. Personal Demons

_**Ok, so you know how we authors get emails when others review or like our story? So, I got one of those emails, a few hours ago, and I was super excited, b/c it was a review. I was thinking, OH YAY! Someone reviewed! And then, I read the review. I sat for a while, and I wondered, how many other people think that? Are the people who hate my story actually outnumbering the people who like it? And most of them simply just don't bother commenting, trashing my story? **_

_**So, I sat down with Anneliese and we talked about it. She reminded me that I'd received dozens of emails praising my story. **_

"_**Obviously, Lana, people like the damn thing." She rolled her eyes in this 'get over yourself' sort of way. **_

_**So, I feel better now. I'm going to continue on with the story, regardless of who or how many trash my story. **_

_**Notsojollysanta, this message is to you. You can stop reading my story, I don't care. It won't hurt me, b/c I see the people **_who do like **_my story. So back off. Write your own story, instead of trashing others. _**

They had sent Remus, Dedalus, and Kingsley to Majorca looking for the Dursleys. The three wizards had spent the past three days, scouring the area for the family, spending their nights in a cramped hotel room with only two beds.

Remus had become almost used to sleeping, tucked away into a corner on the floor. The full moon had been only a week ago, the scars marring his body, deep red lines.

Kingsley gave him nervous, frantic looks. He clearly didn't want Remus outside, possibly getting hurt. And both men knew why. If something were to happen to Remus, Sirius' only remaining friend, the man just might break.

So, instead of bringing him along, for he was far more logical than Dedalus, Diggle and Kingsley were systematically going house-to-house, apartment-to-apartment, hotel-to-hotel, holding up various pictures of the Dursleys. They claimed they would contact Remus if they found anything, but so far, that hadn't happened, and he was beginning to wonder if it ever would.

Right now, the werewolf sits on one of the beds, looking at the contents of a rucksack before him. Everything they had recovered from Privet Drive had been locked away in a cupboard downstairs. Professor Dumbledore had Harry's actual trunk sitting somewhere in his office, but had left stuff he thought might make Harry trust them. Old essays, photos, drawings. Remus sifted threw notes, clearly written in teenage hands. Three different styles, bickering, plotting, daydreaming. He smiled, thinking of when he himself had been a fourteen year old, with no other problems than school and the full moon.

Harry's Invisibility Cloak, sat carefully folded in the bottom of the rucksack. It had been found, tightly tucked under everything else in the trunk, as if discouraging thieves. Dumbledore thought they might need to use it to sneak Harry away from wherever he was. Or to use themselves.

The boy's wand, holly, eleven inches, lay in Remus' hand. At least, what was let of it. Someone, probably his uncle, had stomped on the wand, snapping it almost cleanly in two. That was were they had found it, on the bathroom floor. Clearly, Harry had been left defenseless. The idea of it all increases Remus' strong dislike of Harry's Muggle family.

Just then, the doorknob jiggles. Remus grabs his wand, points at the door, eyes narrowed. It opens to reveal a soaking Dedalus Diggle, grumbling.

"You're insane, Shacklebolt, barking mad. There is no way that was Mr. Dursley and Mrs. Dursley. No one, and I mean _no one_ is that awful." he mutters, wringing his sodden hat straight onto the floor where Remus usually slept.

Kingsley, who was very much dry, shuts the door behind him. A loud, final _clap_ echoes throughout the small room.

"What happened?" asks Remus, taking in the dripping Diggle.

"The genius over there decided to go up to Mrs. Dursley-" here there's a huff of "_she was not!" _from Dedalus. "and ask her some questions. Mr. Dursley got mad and poured water over Dedalus' head. Kind of funny, almost." Kingsley smiles grimly at the werewolf. "Hello, Remus."

Remus nods back, watching Dedalus finally give up and tries to magically warm up his hat. It catches on fire and the short man shrieks, rushing about, trying to save his crispy hat.

"We've got good news." says Kingsley.

"Possibly fake news!" shrieks Dedalus, dropping his hat to the ground and stomping on it.

Kingsley glowers at the smaller wizard and pulls a scrap of paper out of his pocket, handing it to Remus. It's a photo of the Dursleys, probably from a few years ago, looking happy.

"Look at this picture, Dedalus. It's the exact people we just saw," Kingsley says calmly. Dedalus doesn't respond, too busy checking his hat, which promptly erupted into even brighter flames.

"AHH! DAMN'T!" he yells, dropping the hat once again.

"We could have questioned them, found out what they'd done with Harry, if the genius over there hadn't freaked out and backed off at the last minute. It _is_ the Dursleys we saw. I'm sure of it.

Dedalus lets his burnt and tattered hat float to the ground in defeat, his mouth set in a hard, grim slash.

"I'm sure it _was not_ them. I refuse to hunt down Muggles, simply because they might look like the people we're looking for. That means nothing, not unless you actually hear them say, 'Hey, we're the Dursleys.'"

"They're not going to say that. And you just said they looked like the Dursleys, these people you saw." smiles Remus.

"I said maybe." he growls back. "And if you two want to interrogate those poor people, leave me out of it. I'm going to get a new hat. Have fun."

Kingsley and Remus share glances, nod, and then stand, walking to the door.

Dedalus gapes after them. "Wait, you're not _really_ going, are you? I was just joking! Guys? Hey, wait!"

Kingsley walks out, and Remus has his hand on the doorknob. He turns to look at Dedalus.

"We're willing to take chances. For Harry. Whether you are or not, it doesn't matter to us. He's got us. And we'll tell Dumbledore about how you're not willing to risk yourself, don't you worry."

"But..." Diggle splutters, looking flabbergasted. "I'm not some bloody noble Gryffindor, not like you."

"Doesn't matter." Remus replies.

The door shuts behind him in an almost pleasing way.

Petunia had thought they would be safe in Majorca. They'd never taken the boy, so it wouldn't immediately occur to the freaks where they might go. They had no reason to think of here, this sunny little part of Spain.

Unless they questioned the neighbours about the Dursleys vacationing habits. That might give them away a bit.

Vernon twitched at every little noise, every bang, every voice. It was worse than that summer of 1991, when they had panicked about the boy being a...a _freak_. He locked the doors every time they left and just before they went to bed. He figured out how to lock the windows, and block almost every nook and cranny.

And yet, she worried, like rats, that the magic would still find it's own way in.

They had been staying a the hotel for nearly a week, having fled in the early morning, Vernon waking them to explain how they had to leave _right now_. She was worried this tiny little run-down hotel room would soon become their new home.

And then, the following Sunday, he stumbles in, his new tie crooked, but he has a jaunty, almost loopy smile plastered on his face.

'oh dear' she thinks to herself.

"My office said I'll be working out of the Majorca district from now on." he says dropping onto the hotel bed, which groans dramatically. "We'll search for an apartment-to soon, Petunia, don't you worry. Things will be fine. They'll never find us."

"And if they do?" she retorts, sewing the hem of one of Dudley's shirts.

"Well they won't." he growls, stomping off.

It took two more days of locked off torture to change that.

Petunia lounges on a bench in the teensy park surrounding the hotel when she seems them. A tall African man and a smaller man with frizzing blonde hair, both wearing dark blue robe-like outfits. One of them gestures at her, holding out a photo to his companion, like "look, it's her"

She squeaks, panics, and rushes off back to the hotel room. She scrambles to lock the door behind her, then begins throwing clothes randomly onto the bed.

"They've found us, Vernon! Time to go!"

Vernon comes out of the bathroom, spit and toothpaste dripping onto the cheap yellow carpet.

"Petunia dear, nothing's wrong. Though you've got wet paint on your bum." He turns to finish brushing his teeth, but screams, ducking, when a shoe flies past his ear. "Are you mad, woman? What the hell?"

She glares at him, the other shoe dangling from her fingertips.

"The wizard-freaks, the people like _him_, will be here soon, _Vernon_. We have to leave_ right now." _

He sighs and takes her hand, leading her outside without a word. In one of his hands, he holds the ice bucket, which had melted into a pail of dirty water.

"Vernon, what the hell are we doing?" she demands, as he drags her through the park. He doesn't say a word, simply walking in front of her.

She spots the two wizard-freaks from earlier and flinches as they move towards Vernon and her.

"That's them, Verny," she mutters, pointing at them.

When the shorter, balding one walks up, he opens his mouth as if to ask something, but before he does, Vernon, very bravely, pours the dirty water over the freak's head.

Both men blink, as if confused, then the darker one grabs his companion and they rush off.

"We have to go now. Get back to the room, we're leaving." Vernon growls. Petunia has to refrain from saying 'I told you so,'.

Inside, Vernon orders Dudley to begin packing. The boy, who had been up to this point simply playing his handheld, gaped at his parents like a fish.

Vernon twitches, and grumbles about not having a proper weapon.

"Where's a shotgun when you need it?" he mutters, throwing his clothes into his suitcase. Suddenly, he freezes, seeming to realize his wife and son haven't moved. Piggy eyes focus on them, narrowed and scowling.

"Well? Come on, let's go!" he roars. With that, all three begin packing with a sort of rushed fervor.

There's a knock on the door and Petunia freezes, clutching a pair of her bloomers.

"Mr. Dursley? We know you're in there. Even if this door is locked, Mr. Lupin and I can still get in. I would recommend opening it yourself," says a deep, calm voice from outside.

Vernon, pale and sweaty, totters over to the door, unlocking it and scowling at the two men on the stoop outside.

Petunia watches the smaller, gaunt-faced one step in, looking straight at her. He look's familiar, though she can't think of why he would. She certainly didn't associate herself with wizard-freaks like him.

"Hello, Petunia. Nice to see you again. May we sit down?" he gestures to the simple, hard wooden chairs dropped in the corner.

"No, you may not. You _may_ damn well leave before I call the cops on you." growls Vernon, stepping in front of her and Dudley, as if to protect them.

"Shame," says the man, turning to go. "We'll leave you to face the Death Eaters when they come, then. Hope you enjoy magic, because these men won't be near so polite as Kingsley or I am."

Vernon freezes, his piggish eyes narrowing, thinking. _Talk to these wizards, or be killed by even crazier wizards. _Petunia knew which option she would pick.

Her husband finally nods. "Fine, i'll answer your bloody questions."

"Where's Harry?" asks the dark wizard immediately. "What happened to him? Where did you leave him?"

Vernon smirks, though there's obvious fear behind the smarmy look. "No idea. Quite frankly, I don't really give a damn. The little freak ran off over a week ago. Serves the brat right. Getting my family into trouble."

"And you went on holiday? Your nephew, _your only nephew_, disappears and instead of telling someone, _looking_ for him, you go on _holiday? _You go to Spain? Seems kind of suspicious, wouldn't you say, Kingsley?" murmurs the thinner man, in a cool formality, distant but commandeering.

The dark wizard nods, scowling at them. "We may have to encourage them to talk," he says, as if Petunia and Vernon aren't right there. "I have some Veritaserum on me right now. What do you think?"

"What's that?" squeaks Petunia, images of her husband's body contorting and spazzing all over the floor.

"Just something to loosen your husband's tongue."

"You're not poisoning me!" yells Vernon, stumbling away from them. "I won't let you!"

The thinner man rolls his eyes, points his wand at Vernon and mutters something.

Vernon's unconscious body slumps to the floor.

"Vernon!" Petunia shrieks, hurling herself at one of the men, howling.

There's another dull thump and Petunia Dursley joins her husband on the floor.

The boy sitting on the bed blinks at them, mouth open in an almost comical way. " I didn't do anything!" he squeals, his hands moving towards his backside. "Don't hurt me!"

Kingsley, ignoring the obese teen, steps over to Dursley's body and checks his pulse. "He's ok, Remus. The woman is, too, I think."

Remus nods, sheathing his wand as Kingsley pours a liquid down Dursley's throat. The fat Muggles repulse him. They abused and possibly killed their nephew and then simply go off on holiday? Who did that?

"If you please, Remus?" gestures Kingsley.

Remus nods, pointing his wand once more at Dursley's tubby body. "Ennervate," he mutters casually, ignoring the high-pitched cry behind him.

"Dad!" Then Kingsley, calm and collected, yet threatening. "You ought to hush up, child."

Dursley's pale eyes open, dull and empty. The whites roll back and his pupils wander about, almost like Mad-Eye's fake eye. Remus is repulsed a little, but steps closer to the man.

"Mr. Dursley?" he mutters, bending over to look at the man straight in the eye. "If your name is Vernon Dursley, nod once." He nods once. "Good. Now, I want you to tell me what happened the last time you saw Harry Potter."

Dursley nodded. "I had a few bottles of wine," he begins, voice monotone. "I was alone with the boy, Petunia had taken Dudley to visit his nurse and the boy was upstairs making noises. I came upstairs and I beat him. His arm had already been broken before and two of his ribs had been cracked. I broke a few more and his leg, for good measure."

It sends a shiver through Remus, hearing the man speak so casually about murdering a child.

"He was dead within twenty minutes."

"What did you do with the body?" asks Kingsley.

"Dumped it, near Wiltshire."

"You're sure, absolutely one hundred percent sure, Harry's dead? Is your nephew dead?"

"Yes. Yes he is. I killed him myself. I'd do it again."

"Thank you, Mr. Dursley," says Kingsley, taking Remus by the elbow. "That will be all, child," he said in direction of the fat boy on the bed, who nodded dumbly.

Outside, Remus puked, emptying his stomach.

"You ok?" asks Kingsley, patting him on the back softly.

"No! He killed Harry! He killed...oh my God, he killed James' baby. You...you can't...oh my God."

"Do you need me to help you?"

Remus shakes his head, standing up. "I'm ok. I'll be fine."

Except he wouldn't. Harry was, officially, dead. Harry-James and Lily's child. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the world spin. And then, there's Kingsley's hand on his elbow, directing him back to their dingy hotel room, which is almost identical to the one they'd just left.

"Uh-oh," mutters Kingsley and Remus looks up to see a destroyed room. Harry's rucksack, the one containing his belongings, is gone. So is Dedalus.

"There's a note," he mutters, handing it to Kingsley.

_Kingsley and Remus,_

_Death Eaters. At the door, trying to break in. Don't know how long I've got. They know about Harry. They don't know where he is. _

_I'll try to protect the room as best as I can but, they're almost in and I don't know if I can-_

"Oh my word," mutters Kingsley.

_**Ok, so I got the idea to send them to Majorca b/c they are often talking about visiting the area in Harry Potter. See, at this point, the Dursleys, not being the most intelligent people, think they're safe. They're not going to get hurt, everything's cool, those wizards aren't going to find them. So they put themselves in an area that's familiar. Big mistake. If everyone in the neighbourhood knows you go to this one place **_every single year, _**when the wizards come knocking, they're gonna say, 'I dunno where they are, but they often take holidays in Majorca. ' I'm also assuming Majorca is the one in Spain? Correct me if I'm wrong. **_

_**Yeah, not one of your brighter moves, Mr. Dursley. **_

_**Also, tell me if you think the chapter is too long. I think it is, but at the same time, I like the length. **_


	5. React, Puppet

Dedalus sits on the bed of the hotel, waiting for Remus and Kingsley to come back. He was nervous, twitchy, and worried.

He hadn't really thought they'd leave him here, alone. He thought they'd laugh, come back to fetch him.

His brothers had pulled the same stunt hundreds of times before.

But it had been more than ten minutes and neither one had returned.

"Dammit," he mutters, then looks down to the floor, where the remnants of his hat lay scattered. "Double dammit," he mutters again, for it had been his best hat, given to him at his graduation by his Aunt Mildred. He had owned the thing for nearly fifteen years.

Just then, there's a loud bang outside, sending the room shuddering. Dedalus topples off, being thrown to the floor. There's another crash, and a third.

He hears voices, loud, male, angry. 'Death Eaters!' he thinks, scrambling to his feet. Just the perfect ending to this day.

He looks around, hoping to see his wand, but the only wand is the Potter boy's and it's broken. Instead, his hand encloses on a quill, carelessly dropped on the floor.

'Write a note,' his brain whispers. 'Just in case..'

Craning his neck, he tries to find a piece of paper, just a scrap. The only paper is from the notes and pictures that has fallen out of a rucksack. He grabs one randomly and scrawls a message on the back.

_Kingsley and Remus,_

_Death Eaters. At the door, trying to break in. Don't know how long I've got. They know about Harry. They don't know where he is. _

_I'll try to protect the room as best as I can but, they're almost in and I don't know if I can-_

But before he can finish, the door crashes open and several masked figures rush in. One of them laughs at the sight of him, calling out a taunt.

He recalls his older brothers, laughing at him, when he'd been accepted into Gryffindor. He wonders, briefly, if it _is_ his brother looking down at him.

"Please!" he squeaks, before a sharp boot cracks down on his wand hand. "Please! Stop!"

They don't listen, they don't care, as one of them, grinning no doubt behind that stupid mask, points his wand at Dedalus.

"_Crucio!" _and there's unbearable pain, too much and he passes out to the sound of laughter. His brothers, smirking at him, mocking him, is the last thing he sees.

When they sit down at the Order meeting, everyone's eyes carefully slide away from Dedalus' usual seat. No one wants to acknowledge another fallen comrade, like the dozens before him.

"What information do you have for us, Kingsley? Remus?" asks Dumbledore, interrupting almost ten minutes of awkward staring or pretending you weren't staring.

Remus can't say them, those words that end their hopes. He sits like a coward, not blinking. He can't admit the truth, the awful truth. He can't, because if he does, Sirius will die. He let's Kingsley say it for him, thankful that the man's voice is sharp and clear, not catching, like Remus' would have done. He couldn't have listened to someone choking up.

"Harry's dead. Vernon Dursley killed him," It's simple, yet complicated, explaining the death of a not-so-innocent child.

And, of course, there's silence, originally. Gaping mouths, stares. Then wailing, in the background, from Mrs. Weasley. Her shoulders shake from uncontrollable sobs, all their tears streaming down her face. Arthur tucks her into his arms, patting her back. Harry was almost like Molly's child. Except that he couldn't be anyone's child.

Other than her wails, though, there are no words, no exclamations, no sound. All the sound has been sucked from them, leaving them dry, cheap imitations of people. Fake people, for whom grief will come later, in the dark of the night, with a bottle of Fire Whiskey.

Sirius, who stumbled back, lurching from his chair. Sirius, who is Remus' brother. His eyes wide.

"No!" he shrieks, his voice cutting clearly over Molly's Again, "NO!"

Remus reaches out to grasp him, calm him, but Sirius jerks away. There's raw pain and sorrow on his face. Fear, clearly etched. Fear that his worries, of failure, have come true.

"No, no, no, no, no!" he screams, and before he can do anything, someone seizes him, taking his wand. But Sirius still screams. "You're lying! You're lying! I hate you! Stop lying!"

Glass could shatter into Remus' heart and it would hurt less. He wants to help, leans in to, but feels his old teacher, McGonagall, grab him back, keeping him away.

"Let him calm," she whispers in his ear. "He's not right just now. Let them calm him."

Remus doesn't think Sirius will ever calm down. They've taken his child, his best friend's child, and killed him.

Sirius will want to kill himself. Remus can't let that happen.

He had bolted upstairs, far away, locking himself in his room. No reminder, there could be no reminders.

Pictures covered, or torn. Old robes and essays thrown into a box, letters, sealed off. Everything, covered or hidden away.

And yet, no matter what, the ghosts still came at him every night, reaching out at him, accusations ready on their tongues.

He spent most of his time drunk, haggard and hung over. Unfocused and in his own world. No one else, except Remus, came up to see him and that was how he preferred it. Alone.

Some nights, it got really bad. The pain in his head and his heart-he wanted to die. And he would have tried to, but Remus came in every day, scowling at him, removing empty beer bottles so Sirius couldn't hurt himself.

"If Harry's alive, we're not bringing him back to your body, slumped over a bottle of Firewhisky," his friend grumbles, taking empty bottles, razors, quills.

Sirius sneers at him, then drops his head in his hands. "Why not just put me on a padded room for the rest of my life, eh? Clearly, I'm not s-s-stable," he slurred.

"You're not mad, Pads. You're upset, desperate-not crazy." But he can't believe that. Because if he doesn't, that gives him a chance that this is all delusions in his head. That he was insane and everyone, Harry and Lily and James were all still alive.

He didn't want to come down, not for meeting, dinner, bathroom trips. Holed up in his room.

Except for Remus coming up, he wasn't sure anyone was even left.

He might have been better if Remus just gave up on him, let him starve. But, instead, the werewolf insisted upon coming up each night and each morning. Once, Remus had made the mistake of refusing Sirius liquor until the man ate, but the Animagus had merely sat there all night, not eating and later slipping downstairs to snitch some from the kitchen.

"Give up, Moony," he croaks one night, glaring at Moony, who lays a plate full of food that Sirius can't eat onto the man's bed.

"No," Remus replies, his voice stronger than Sirius, who's been dulled by alcohol. "Sirius, you're killing yourself. How do you think Harry will feel, will react, when he comes back and you're dead? All the work we've done trying to find him will be pointless of you're not there for him. You've got to stay alive-for Harry."

"Harry's dead," Sirius retorts, turning away. It's easier than the pointless hoping that Remus holds on to.

It would almost be easier if Harry _were _dead. It wasn't like the boy had anyone who could raise him properly, love him properly.

It would be better if Sirius were dead.

_**So, if anyone would like to read a story about Dedalus and his brothers, I'm writing it. Also, Sirius is at this point EXTREMELY drunk and maybe suicidal. But, then you would be, too. **_


	6. When the Lost are Revealed

_**Ok, so this needed to be done eventually. A thank you note. **_

_**Thank you People who reviewed- anthony37, LAoR, jambi, Loving Fiction, loretta537, Miss R., OmnitrixFairy74, MischievousCuriosity, drucie99, turnip713, GreatOuse, **_

_**Thank you, People who put this on Story Alert- chocomonkey10, Psychogirl12, Azzy97, fish01, Xela is Crazy, loretta537, Aisling Lily Rose, Searching4Sanity, GreatOuse, ImmortalDragon2, Sunset On Heartache, PROCASTINATOR TOMORROW, st-potter, jambi, awesomeperson17, Kila9Nishi, crazyme03, DannysaysRAWR, mizz-shy-gurl, Eefje, .wolves, MischievousCuriosity, OmnitrixFairy7, cubye4, potterforever, arekay, Tempete Sanguine, Sophlulu, rebekahalana, ScottTG, Agronaphoenix, 334, NoturHeroNeMore, Miss R.E. Mulvey, cozmic, Confused Interests, turnip713, slytherinprincess817, Mayumi Shinomori, hhargrove, ams71080, CClan, blaaah92, Blue Element, nyladnam04, **_

_**Thank you People who favorited-NarutoLover9, hpsbdg, Animaga-smile1, LAoR, Tolkare, Berna45, animelonely, drucie99, dogrox, amy2013, voceycurt, geetac, OmnitrixFairy7**_

_**Thanks to Pelahnar, who told me how to post stories on here. Thanks to Elsbeth and Turtle, for being awesome, and writing stories. Also, big, big thanks to the GreatOuse and DannysaysRAWR, who noticed I screwed up on Chap. 3. (heh, my bad.) **_

Jone has spent nearly three months with the old woman, Ettie. She's weird, no doubt, but he doesn't know where else to go, so he stays here. In this tiny little two story house, cluttered with fifty, sixty years of memory.

He quickly learned, in those three months, that Ettie was clearly mad. Howling in the night, disgusting dung beetles for dinner, which she claimed was nutritious and hearty. The way she runs around the house quietly and jumps at you, laughing, cackling when he yelled.

And her stories, her little toys and junk, which she thought were priceless jewels. Such as now.

Ettie sat across from him, sipping at the weed tea she had made for both of them. She was chittering away about her most prized possessions, which were supposedly worth more than diamonds.

She grins, revealing a toothless maw and scampers off. When her foot reaches the upper most step (the house is made of wood, and every step you took made the house creak like a ship) he dumps the contents of his tea into a long-dead flowerpot behind him.

"You stay right there, ducky (she liked calling him 'ducky') I've got to go get them. Oh, yes! Yes, ducky, you will be the first person, since your pa, in a long time, to see my most prized possessions. You should be proud, ducky. This is a rare privilege. I was going to show it to you older, but now that you're back, I decided it's time for this!"

He doesn't believe her, for she's claimed many other things, but maybe she was in her rare moments of sanity. They were hard to come by, slowly slipping, shrinking. For the most part, the two lived in a world of howling, screaming madness. Especially at nights. Oh, how he hated the nighttime.

Jone is tucked away into one of the high-backed chairs, his knees drawn high, poking the hollow in his throat.

There is a crashing noise from somewhere upstairs, and his elbow jerks, smacking the arm of his chair. He considers, just for a moment, leaping up to help her, but he doesn't, settling back into his seat. The old woman has been in several minor little incidents, these last few months, including a stray dog chasing her through the cabbage patch out back. Jone knew now the woman was stronger than she appeared.

Ettie kept insisting he call her "Ma", but the word tasted funny in his mouth, so he mostly called her Ettie. He had realized her name, not because she had told him, but because it was scratched into the walls all over the house. Ettie, he knew, was insane, but so was he.

After all, it was probably very mad to have strange dreams of boys dying and a strange lizard, snake-man who chanted funny words. The dreams always made him scream and shake, falling off the bed in a cocoon of moth-eaten blankets.

Sometimes, there were flashes during the day, of the dreams, which left him mute and twitchy. The voices, always in his head, whispering. His forehead always hurt, his fingers trying to tear at his own face. Almost as if trying to cut the pain out with his fingernails.

Something drips onto his cheek, hot and wet and metallic in smell. He realizes that, unconsciously, he's been scratching at the strange cut on his forehead. Ettie claimed he had gotten the cut from an accident harvesting her cabbages when he was ten, though he didn't recall it.

But then, he didn't recall much of anything, other than the dreams. He knew he definitely had had those even before the incident.

She comes back, holding a dirty padlocked box about as big as the loaf of bread molding on the counter in their kitchen. There is another box, narrow and slender, poking from the pocket of her dirty dress.

He watches her perch on the chair across from her, her short blonde hair sticking up, giving her a crazed look. Her eyes wander about, randomly focusing on Jone's shoulder or a pebble. Then, with startling clarity, she focuses on his face, beady blue eyes boring straight into his. There was a scary sort of look in them.

He wonders what he looks like, with his pale skin. There are no mirrors in Ettie's house, so he had no idea what he looked like. Only small clues, like how his body was so small, thin and pale. Or the strange cut on his forehead. The way he constantly had to tug on his hair, it had to be shorter than he was used to. He wonders if Ettie cut it or someone else.

"The first thing I want to show you, Jone, your pa found on an adventure. He and I were traveling through the heart of Africa, working as missionaries at that nice little church you were baptized at. When I became very ill with a strange disease, none of the doctor's could heal me. I was going to die. But your pa, a braver man I never knew, began searching for this. According to local legend, it had healing powers, this thing did. Well, your pa believed it, even though many people called his a fruitcake, he was even kicked out of the mission. So he set out to find it, and he did! Yes siree, he did. Just look at me, if you want proof! Your pa always used to embellish the story, though, claiming he had fought giant spiders along the way,"

She presents the thick, small box with a sort of flair, dramatically. She slowly lifts the cover off, making gasping noises every few seconds. He leans forward expectantly, wondering what he'll see. A shaman charm, a dried out herb, or maybe a gem? Although he really shouldn't get his hopes up that this actually is something of worth, he always slightly hopes that, somewhere in the back of her mind, Ettie has some sanity tucked away.

It's a bright red bouncy ball, sitting in a case of dirty, faded velvet. The ball's smaller than Ettie's fist, and appears to have been nibbled on. Ettie grins at him, her eyes sparkling with a kind of madness.

"It's very pretty, Ettie. I, uh, like it. It looks very, um-"

"Magical!" Ettie finishes in a loud voice. Her hands are thrown in the air and she spins about like a small child.

He's startled, his body clenching.

_Thick, sausage-like fingers wrap around his neck. They're throttling him, cutting off his windpipe. He tries to scream, but there's no air for him. The other hand pulls back, and rushes at his eye. Glass shatters, falling to the floor. _

"_There's no such thing as magic!" roars a deep, unseen voice. _

"Of course there's magic!" laughs Ettie, wiggling her fingers at him. "That's what your pa used to say. He'd say 'Ettie-girl, Ettie, you just listen to me. Magic is all around us, even if you can't see it. It's still there, Ettie-girl.'"

He blinks away the tears that had sprung to his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd screamed out loud.

Ettie hands him the first box. "Set that down, Jone." When he didn't immediately react, she sighs and smacks him on the side of the head.

"I'm your ma, Jonesy, and I told you to set that box down!"

He gulps and drops the box on a chair. Although Ettie may or may not be his mother (and he was hoping for the latter) she seemed to think so, punishing him like she was.

_Except, for some reason,he knew he'd ever been punished by his mother. After all, she was..._

Jone flinched, wondering where that idea had come from so suddenly, like the memory. Or had it been a dream, brought on by the awful weed tea and the heat?

"Jone! Pay attention!" snaps Ettie, glaring up at him. He smiles apologetically and nods.

She wraps her colorful shawl, which seemed to have six colours in it, though he could only remember the names of five.

Ettie pulls the second box out of her pocket with a look of longing, nearly stroking the box. Jone half expected her to purr like a...like a...like a _what?_ This freaked him out, the whole not remembering thing.

The lid is lifted slowly, a big grin on Ettie's face as she reveals to him a stick, cleanly splintered half way. A thin, gold string, barely visible, connects the two pieces. The whole stick looks very fragile, very important. Very ridiculous. Sticks were not good for anything other than throwing.

"Great," he mutters, "Another _useless_ treasure."

Ettie laughs, high and mad. "Jone! This is not useless, oh no! It's broken now, but you should have seen this thing! It belonged to your pa. He knew magic, see? And this here stick, he called it a wand. He used to be a wizard, but that was before the Masks got him and killed him dead." she waves the wand around a bit, the pieces dangling from her fingers.

'She's crazy,' Jone thinks. 'Barking, howling mad.' Everyone knew magic was fake. Wizards were a thing of fairytales. That's what...what someone always would say, when he used to bring up magic.

Jone sighs, touching his knuckles to the side of his head. He hates when he can't recall a name, or a date. His mind was blank, empty, a clean, wiped slate. He had no idea who he was, or who he had been.

Somehow, the first three months with Ettie had been among the worst times. The screaming, screeching silence in his head. That he couldn't remember his own name. Was it Jone? Or did he have a different name?

He wonders, a fleeting thought in the back of his mind, if he really _is_ Ettie's son. Perhaps madness was a family disease? That would explain the voices in his head.

Why the snake-man whispered strange words, called him strange names that weren't his own. At least, he hoped they weren't.

He didn't think he wanted to be Harry Potter.

_**Ok, quick Author Note: Ettie and Jones are both crazy for different (explained later) reasons. While it's not so obvious now, it continuing chapters, it will be clear on some depths of madness. I also think I doubled this chap. with everyone's names. **_


	7. Sometimes It Must Be Dark

_**DID YOU MISS ME?**_

_**(Hey! First off, I must apologise for the looooooooong break. I know, I know. I'm awful. But I couldn't think of anything, and then, when I could, I was no where near my computer and I didn't have a notebook, so I would forget it. (Yes, yes, bad excuse. I'm a horrible, awful person! I hate myself! (runs off and cries)**_

_**Second off, anyone who would like to know how Turtle is, an update: She's doing better, in relative terms. Relative being she still has cancer, but she isn't going to die any time soon.)**_

Sirius grins to himself as he sneaks all the way downstairs, to the front door. No one was awake and years of practise had made the man an expert at sneaking around. Pathetic, yes, but occasionally useful. He cracks the door open, breathing in fresh air, so different from the stale air of his room, which had been his personal prison for the past week and a half. He sighs and shuts the door behind him. Without a backwards glance, he sets off down the street, not thinking, just breathing.

"Where are we going tonight?" asks a voice by his shoulder, and then, there was Remus, tugging Harry's cloak off, _James' cloak_, shaking his dirty-blonde hair at Sirius.

"Bugger off, Moony. This doesn't concern you." mutters Sirius, pushing past him.

Remus laughs hollowly and follows at a close distance, shadowing the taller man. "Doesn't concern _me?_ How drunk _are _you, Sirius? This concerns me just as much as it does you. Harry's just as important to me, you know. He's not just yours. He's _not James_, Padfoot."

That was too far, too low. Sirius whips around, so close to Remus' face, he can see every premature line in the man's face. "That's not...I _know _that, Moony. Don't you think I know that? Every day...I live with this every _fucking _day. Lily's gone, James' gone, but I swear to God, Moony, if Harry's dead...if Harry's dead because of that stupid Muggle, you better fucking kill me first. Because if you don't, I'll kill the Dursleys and every single Death Eater I can."

"And I'll help you hide their bodies , Sirius, if you just stop and think about what you're saying. Think about how Harry will feel when you're back in Azkaban because you killed a fat, useless Muggle."

Sirius growls then, a low guttural sound that chills Remus to the bone. "I. Do. Not. Give. A. Damn. I don't care how Harry will care, because Harry is _dead! _Dammit, Remus, what is _your _problem? Why can't you get it through your head that Harry is dead?"

"Because I can't allow that. Like how I can't allow you to kill the Dursleys'. Harry's _not _dead."

Sirius laughs and tries to tug his arm away from Remus. "You're the one who questioned him and you're telling me you don't _believe him_?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. And I'm also saying it's stupid of you to go running after Vernon Dursley."

"Try to stop me, then, Moony. Stop me." It's a dare, a bet, a threat. Similar to the ones they'd given to each other over bottles of Butterbeer, laughing at the more outrageous ones. But, now, they weren't fourteen and the stakes were much higher.

"I'm not _stopping _you, Sirius! I'm coming _with you! _Don't you see? I'm _helping _you! I'm not killing anyone, and neither are you. We're going to re-question the Dursleys. Something didn't seem right about what happened with our last 'discussion'. We'll talk to them, he'll be terrified of you. He'll have to tell the truth."

Finally, still staring at Remus with a wary look, Sirius nodded. "Fine. Together. Wonderful."

"So, do you have _any _idea where you're going, Padfoot?"

"No. I was kind of counting on you coming and helping me."

/

When they reach Majorca, the two men stepped out of the shadows, one of them pausing to look around at their surroundings.

"Over there," he says, pointing at one of the identical hotel rooms, the shutters pulled down and the door (most likely) locked tight. The entire place is dull, a washed out pink, like dulled cotton candy, left in its bag, forgotten and no longer sweet.

"You sure?" asks the taller, darker haired. Without waiting for his friend, the man starts off, walking to the building. His friend, sighing, follows after, tempted to call to Sirius to "Run more quietly!" But then, Sirius is not a master of stealth, unless he consciously wants to be.

The front door was, in fact, locked, but it was a mere two seconds and a quick "_Alohomora!" _to open the pale, sickly brown door. Inside, the beds are neatly made, the lamps off, the room empty. _Completely_ empty. No suitcases, no toothbrushes, no anything.

Remus begins puttering around, looking for clues. Room 15, this was Room 15. He remembers, this _is _the room the Dursleys' are in. _Were _in. Where had they gone?

"Moony? Come look at this." called Sirius, standing by the nightstand, clutching a piece of paper. Remus walked over and took the note. It reads:

_Remember us? We remember you. The Order of the Phoenix is one step behind-again. _

_The filthy, disgusting Muggles are dead and dying. They've gotten what they deserve, taking away our Master's prize. And if you come for us, you'll get what's coming, too. _

"Do you suppose...are they _really _dead?" asks Sirius, still staring down at the note, like it's telling him something. "The Death Eaters...did they _really _kill them?"

"They were Muggles, Sirius. It's almost a given that they're dead. I'm surprised they didn't leave blood and guts everywhere, just to scare us."

"Fuck you, Moony. Shut up." murmurs Sirius, shivering. "Now what? They were the only ones who would have known what happened to Harry." Sirius crumples the note up, dropping it on the floor. "They're right. We _are _one step behind. Again."

Just then, there is a thump outside and two wands rush out, pointed at the door. Remus points at himself, then the door, slipping over as quietly as possible, glad that Sirius was backing him. If Death Eaters were on the other side, it would be good to have backup. Remus slid the door open silently, then stuck his head out, looking around. Later, this would be known as 'the dumbest mistake Remus Lupin made'.

A bright red light flew over a mere inches above his head. It hit the wall behind him, leaving a huge, gaping hole in the stone.

"Fuck!" Sirius screams, rolling to Remus' side, his wand out, a fierce look on his face. "C'mon, Moony. Let's kill them both now."

"No! And please don't tell me where you got that wand-I don't want to know." Images of Sirius breaking into the Ministry whip through Remus' mind. "We can't kill them, we don't know who they are."

"Hello, Remus? They have wands and they just tried to, oh, I dunno, _bloody kill you!_" Sirius shrieks, and the red lights sparkle outside the window.

"Shut up!" Remus yells, but it's too late, as the door bursts open and two dark figures, wearing burly, black cloaks rushed in, wands out.

Between the four of them, curses flew everywhere, bright lights flooding the place, screams and shouts of anger ricocheting off the walls. Sirius ducks and weaves, everywhere, trying to stop most of the blows from coming at Remus because he's afraid of what will happen if he loses another friend.

The taller Death Eater slumps to the ground and Remus pauses, moving closer. His friend is already in the hallway, unconscious and bleeding profusely from the nose.

"Is he knocked out?" murmurs Remus, tapping the man with the toe of his shoe. The man leaps at him, tackling Remus to the ground.

"Oy!" yells Sirius, running full-charge at the guy, punching and kicking and just trying to _kill _the guy. He really wanted this man _dead _right now. Anger surges through him as he attacks the guy, trying to stop him from hurting Remus.

Two arms grabs Sirius away from the man, who has really been knocked out this time. "Leave me alone!" Sirius yells, expecting another Death Eater, but it's just Remus, tugging at him. "Knock it off, Moony! Let me go!"

"He's unconscious, Sirius. You can stop beating him up, now."

Sirius blushes slightly, feeling embarrassed. "I know. I was just making sure. He tried to attack you. I was mad."

"I know." says Remus, laughing. "It was entertaining to watch."

"Shut up," Sirius growls, tossing Remus his wand, which has fallen to the floor at some point during the fight.

"Make me," Remus replies, almost tauntingly. It feels like they're back in school, teasing and poking at each other. Sirius can't meet Remus' eye without turning red.

"Let's just head back, alright? The Order will want to know about this."

"About how you valiantly beat up an unconscious man to save me?" laughs Remus, heading to the door, rubbing at the drying blood on his arm.

"I said SHUT UP!"

/

You _do _have a search warrant, right?" asks Hestia Jones, who is now feeling very reluctant to have agreed to come along on this mission. She is beginning to regret even signing up for the Order, considering everything that had happened since.

"Yes, of course. I'm always prepared for stuff like this. Don't worry, Hestia."

_'I'm more worried that this is going to go wrong and that _I'll _be blamed for than anything else,' _she thinks to herself, but follows Kingsley to the elaborate gate anyway.

The gate was massive, sturdy, most likely iron, judging from the colour. It was very thick and had swirling designs all over it. In the distance, Hestia could see a large pond on plush land, trees everywhere, giving the place a closed in feel. A peacock strutted by, clucking at them for a moment before wandering off, as if already bored with them.

Kingsley pulls his wand out, walking up to the gate and tapping it. Then, he steps back, nodding to the gate respectfully, as if it were a gentleman out on the street, or a particularly noble colleague.

"Shacklebolt and Jones, here to see Lucius Malfoy. On official Ministry business. We want to talked to him."

The elaborate swirls pull away, clinking and groaning as they tug on the sides of the gate, opening it like a large mouth. It yawns open, wider than Hestia thought it will, and Kingsley pulls her out from the path of the gate.

They step in, shooting nervous glances at various objects, especially the peacock, which now eyes them reproachfully. At least, Hestia was nervous. Kingsley marches on towards the front door, seemingly unconcerned. Hestia shoots one last glance at the bird and sets off after him, determined not to be frightened, especially not in front of Malfoy.

The entire manor seems like one big message. _Look at how rich we are. How wonderful. Aren't you jealous?_ The place is elaborate, plush. Centuries old, probably has always been in the family. Hestia chuckles slightly, imagining Neanderthal versions of the Malfoys, even then smarmy and snobbish.

"You ok, Jones?" asks Kingsley, giving her a strange look. Hestia stops smiling, straightening up, trying to look as old and experienced as she can. She is only twenty-four, one of the youngest members.

The front door is just as showy, just as _extravagant_. Images of peacocks are carved in, along with the letter _M, _as if they had no idea who's manor they were at.

"I always thought they were a little pompous," mutters Kingsley, then knocks his fist on the door, making a deep, resonating thud. "How long do you think they'll make us wait?" he asks, grinning coyly at her.

Just as she opens her mouth to answer, the door flies open and a pale, blonde woman steps out, glaring at them, as if disgusted. She must have been beautiful, at one point, but her beauty had been wasted, spent on glares and grimaces. Now, she only looks angry, sullen, disappointed.

"Yes?" she says finally, as if it were _Kingsley's _fault they had to wait. She didn't pause for a response, turning aside and nodding at someone deeper within the house. "What is your business here? We're very busy right now, and if you're selling something, we don't want it."

"We're not selling anything, Mrs. Malfoy. I'm Kingsley Shacklebolt, this is Hestia Jones. We're from the Ministry. We have a few questions for your husband. Is he home?"

Lucius Malfoy, looking every bit the smarmy weasel he is, appears in the doorway next to his wife. "The Ministry? Oh, how fascinating." _'You don't seem fascinated,' _Hestia thinks to herself. "Come in," he says, giving them a twitchy, politician smile. "We'll talk in my office, then."

Kingsley and Hestia followed after him, inside, Hestia blinking at all the elaborate vases and portraits and centuries old artifacts. Even a single pillow case probably cost more than her entire flat! Who had _this _much money? Inside Malfoy's "office" (which, alone, was bigger than Hestia's kitchen and living room) they all sit down. Malfoy's chair was slightly higher, so that he looks down at them, like a gloating teacher mocking a naughty child.

"What can I do for you, then, Mr. uh...?"

"Kingsley," Shacklebolt replies, knowing full well that Malfoy knew his name and his position and probably a lot more, considering how much he pays the Minister for information. "Kingsley Shacklebolt. And, as I said, this is my partner, Hestia Jones."

Malfoy doesn't even glance at her, focusing instead on Shacklebolt. "Mm hm. Well, exactly why is it you're here, then, Mr. Shacklebolt?"

"We have reason to suspect a young man named Harry Potter is currently at your house, Mr. Malfoy."

Malfoy laughs good-naturedly and shakes his head. "I've only met Mr. Potter twice in my life. I have no idea where he lives or where he would be right now. If that's all, perhaps we should end this meeting? I have to go somewhere."

"Would you mind us checking your house for the boy, Mr. Malfoy?" asks Kingsley, not looking even hopeful, already standing up, appearing resigned to the inevitable answer.

"Certainly so. My son is home for the holidays and I don't want strangers stomping around my house. Good day, Mr. Shacklebolt." He sees them to the door, still with that twisted smile, not acknowledging Hestia's presence even once.

"And besides," he says at the door, "Why would Mr. Potter be _here _of all places?"

/

Lucius feels sick as he tells his wife that he'll be out for a while.

"Where exactly?" she asks, sighing. "I was going to visit a friend. Will you be out long?"

"You can still visit your friend, Narcissa. Draco _is _old enough to stay home alone. And I don't know how long I'll be gone. It's _important _work, if you understand me." Then he walks off to the fireplace, grabbing a pinch of Floo powder. His wife sighs again.

"What? Do I need to hold your hand for everything, Narcissa? You're forty years old for Merlin's sake, you can take care of yourself!"

"Yes, and I can respect people even as I do it, unlike you." she retorts, giving him a pitying look. Their marriage had been arranged and, especially now, seemed to be constantly strained.

He doesn't bother saying good-bye to his wife, his mind already focusing on more important things than the silly woman. The swirling green flames rush up against him, squeezing him and doing nothing to help his stomach. When he steps out, he is greeted, more or less, by a thick, balding man in his mid-thirties.

"Wormtail." he greets the man coldly, wondering if he should have even bothered. The man lives up to his name, a little nobody, a little squirming rat, always running to the biggest umbrella. Lucius hates him but has never really said anything against it. Hadn't most of the Death Eaters abandoned Lord Voldemort after his supposed "demise"?

"L-L-Lucius! H-H-How nice to see you, again." he stutters, falling into a quick bow, scrambling around the taller, thinner man.

"Don't bother with small talk, Wormtail, you're quite pathetic at it. Now, if you would be so kind as to inform our Master of my arrival?"

Wormtail nods and scurries off, twitching and muttering to himself. Not that Lucius notices. He barely has time to pay attention to those below him-whether intellectually or socially.

A few minutes later, Lucius drops into an elaborate bow, much better than Wormtail's, falling to the floor with great enthusiasm.

"My Lord," he gasps, not looking up at the snake-faced man. "I am unworthy of your presence. I am unworthy of your mercy. Spare me, Master. I have news!"

"Get up, Lucius. Tell me your news." Voldemort hisses, and Lucius stands up giving his master a shorter, quicker bow.

"Yes, My Lord. The Potter boy, My Lord. He is missing. Even the Order of the Phoenix knows nothing of his location." Lucius smiles, feeling pleased with himself. He had brought news of his Master's enemy's disappearance. Surely this was good?

"And this pleases you, Malfoy? Do you think it _pleases _me? I learned this _weeks _ago, when you were buttering up our friend, the Minister. Those ridiculous Muggles are dead, because I knew. One of the Order is in our hands because I knew. And Harry Potter is not missing, he is _dead_!" Voldemort smiles suddenly and Lucius stomach clenches, preparing itself for what comes next.

"I don't like useless information, Lucius. _Crucio!"_

_**There is no excuse for my long absence. I apologise. I must inform you that I have also learned to never start writing ahead when you have no idea where you're going with the current chapter. **_


	8. Borderline

_**I have resolved to do my best to shorten the wait time between chapters. Unfortunately, this segment is a failure in that perspective, as I burnt my fingers and couldn't get on my computer for a few days. And then a few others things happened. But then, you didn't come to hear me gripe, you came to find out what happens to Harry, Sirius, Jone, and Remus. (sigh, walks off to mope) Extra long, just for you! I own nothing but my OCs! We shall pretend like you guys aren't all mad at me and continue with the story. (But, clearly, you're shaking your fists and thinking 'Shut up already!') **_

/

_A large man seizes him, clutching at Jone's throat and choking him. Jone is struggling to breath and everything is coming out wispy, like he has no air left. He cries out, but the man punches him. Jone screams and suddenly there is blood everywhere, coming from his nose and another spot, near his heart. _

"_Stop! Stop!" Jone yells, but the man only smiles and kicks Jone's arm, stomping on it as if trying to crush it. "Please! Please, stop!" He's pleading now, but this only encourages the man more. Everything swims around him and he feels sick, he feels like dying. He **is **dying. _

"Help!" Jone yells, opening his eyes to...nothing. No blood, no pain. Certainly no light, as Ettie has insisted on covering all the windows up with large tarps.

"To keep out the wand-carriers," she insists, despite him trying to convince her wand-carriers didn't exist.

Sitting up, he shivers, wishing he had something thicker than the pants and thin shirt he had on. In fact, he wishes he had at least another pair of clothes, but everything else in the house is too big for him. It was strange, but Jone is convinced that whatever fantasy Ettie is living in, he isn't originally part of it. From what he can tell, they look nothing alike and Ettie constantly changes Jone's history, insisting one day that he was "the epitome of all that was wrong" in her life, the next "a perfect angel as a baby. Oh, we had always loved you, your pa and I did! A shame he left, though, right shame."

"I thought you said he is dead?" Jone asks, confused. The constantly changing stories are doing nothing to help his memories. It's as if he has never been at this house. He can't recall _anything_, any childhood memories, any adventures, nightmares. Surely, if he _had _been raised here, he would have recalled something. Especially considering Ettie was supposedly his mother.

"Mon amour! Mon cœur! Mon âme! Lève-toi et brille, l'enfant, le jour t'attend." cries Ettie, throwing the door open, a bright purple scarf wrapped around her neck. She wore only a small black hat, the scarf and a too small once-pink towel.

"What?" asks Jone, startled and confused. He didn't understand what she was saying.

"Mon amour! Mon cœur! Mon âme! Lève-toi et brille, l'enfant, le jour t'attend." she repeats "It's Dutch. Or Chinese? I forget. Never mind! Jone, join me downstairs and dance. I have music."

"We have no way to have music, Ettie? You broke the music box, remember?"

"Ah, yes! I recall something of that nature, yes! Then we shall make our own music with our beautiful voices. Sing, Jone! I recall you have the voice of an angel." She says something else in the other language and Jone frowns.

"Sing? What's that?"

"Open your mind, child! And your mouth. Let the words pour out of you, express feelings you didn't know you had." She steps closer and Jone scoots back closer to the wall. This room is much too small, dirty and dusty. His blankets are little more than rags and he coughs through the night. The room can barely fit Jone and the bed, let alone crazy Ettie.

"I'm sorry, I don't sing, then."

"The child, he does not sing? Then let me fix that!" She launches at him, wrapping old, bird-thin arms around him, humming loudly as she pulls him to his feet. The two wander in a circle oddly, she only coming to his chin, he staring at nothing, confused and frightened. Her voice was croaky and he has no idea what she's saying.

Suddenly releasing him, she looked him up and down appraisingly.

"Do I know you? Have I met you before? Charles, is that you? Oh, Charles, you've come back!" she throws her arms back around him, smooching her lips all over his face. "Oh, Charles, where _have _you been? I've missed you so! Oh, Charles, great news! Jone has come back. He's in his room." She turned away, looking at one of the grey walls. "Jone! Jonesy, look! Pappy's come back! Your pa is back. I'm so happy!" She is sobbing now, hot tears running down Jone's already too dirty shirt. "I'm so happy, the family is back together." She smiles up at him, a demented smile, her pale eyes too wide, a queer look in them.

"I'll be right back, my love. Just give me a moment, I'm going to fetch a snack or two. Give me a moment." She rushes off, out the door and down the hallway. He can hear her boots clunking on the dirty, buggy wooden floor.

He remains where he is, startled. This has happened before, Ettie mixing him up with someone else, sometimes not recognising him at all. Once, she had even turned him out of the house, demanding he leave. Jone has no idea who she thought he was that time, but he had merely waited in the cabbage garden for her to remember him, waiting for almost two days.

Ettie comes back, still grinning madly. In her hands is the nicked box that contains her "wand" and in the other, a bowl of rotten bananas, swarming with flies, a unhealthy black, falling apart, decomposing before his eyes. This is not the first time she has tried to force feed him rotten food, either.

"Oh, thanks," he says, dumping the bananas the second she turns away.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" she asks, looking back at him, her eyes once more blank. "Do we know each other? Have we met? I'm Ettie."

/

A few days later, after Jone had been allowed to come back in, Ettie is attempting to make one of her 'famous' dinners. Jone doesn't plan on eating it, considering he watched her earlier, dropping in all sorts of rotten bananas and a few weeds she had pulled from the back yard. Most of their meals seem to consist of cabbage mixed with whatever dirt Ettie could find. Jone is counting down the days until one of them dies.

"What do you think, Jone? Does it look good? Tasty? Yes, that's what I thought," she says conversationally, staring directly at a rusted pot laying on the cracked counter top.

"Um, Ettie, I'm right here?" mutters Jone, even though it was futile. Ettie was once again in one of her moods, wandering around and calling everything "Jone" and "Charles" and occasionally even "Ettie".

"Shh, Charles, I'm talking to our son. He's doing very well in school now, aren't you Jone? He just went on a field trip the other week, did you know that, Charles? Of course not," Jone blinks, confused. Ettie's voice has gotten darker. She is now glaring at him, accusing him of things he has never done.

"We miss you, Charles. Where've you been? Why won't you come home, be a father and a husband?" She picks up the knife laying on the counter, waving it wildly. "Huh? Why, Charles? I know you're a wizard, but that doesn't mean you can abandon your son. Abandon me! We used to be a family, Charles. What happened?"

"Ettie, I don't understand. I'm not Charles. I swear-it's me, Jone! Your son!" As he backs away, Jone realises this is the first time he's ever actually declared himself as Ettie's son, at least out loud. She comes forward, still waving the knife. He wants to take it away from her, but is afraid of being stabbed.

"Please, Ettie, calm down!"

"Why don't _you _come back? I'm so afraid, Charles, I'm terrified. Those Death Eaters, they've been by again. They've been hurting me and Jone and they'll keep doing it. Why won't you make them stop? Huh? If you know magic, make them stop hurting me! That spell, that _curse,_ it hurts so much, Charles. They've used it on Jone, too. He's a little boy, Charles. Please, stop them!" She keeps brandishing the knife, coming closer. Jone is terrified, looking for an exit.

"It would be better if I was just dead! Don't you agree?" Her voice dies suddenly, her voice now barely a whisper. "Wouldn't you agree?" She looks longingly at the knife for a second, as if it were her child. Then, turning it away from Jone, she points the dulled (but still dangerous) blade towards her own chest, towards her own heart.

"Ettie, no!" Jone yells, lunging forward, but Ettie has already thrust the knife into her chest, deeply imbedded. Blood is everywhere, all over her and the knife and spurting over Jone's hands. He's trying to tug at the knife, but it only makes it worse. He's screaming, screaming as she smiles softly, calmly. She drops to the floor, still bleeding, eyes still wide.

"Ettie, stop! Stop!" He is still screaming, sobbing as he tries to stop the bleeding, stop the knife from hurting her. He doesn't understand. What's going on? "Please, Ettie...please?" his voice is only gasps, the words coming out whiny and pathetic. Ettie's eyes go wide for a second, then dull, her body relaxing, her eyes fading.

Jone sits there for possibly hours, cradling the mad old woman. He doesn't understand what has happened, doesn't understand what's going on. He only knows that Ettie's heart isn't beating and there's blood everywhere, covering his arms up to his elbow. He knows that something big has just happened and that he can't do anything about it.

He knows that, at this second, he hates himself more than anything. Whoever he is.

/

They are newer recruits, eager to prove themselves, but not entirely sure how. One was a Slytherin, at least three years out, his partner a Ravenclaw fresh from school. Neither has any idea what they're doing, just that they don't like Mudbloods, and this is the way to stop them. One had pulled the other into it, both nervous as hell.

"But, as I w-was saying, the important thing is to d-drown the effing thing before you get too a-attached." says one drunkenly, slurring and wandering around as they walk down the road. It's late and both are slightly tipsy, afraid of going home to annoyed wives or unsuccessful lives as Death Eaters.

"I wasn't aware _you _could get attached to anything, let alone an ugly bloody kitten. If your marriage is anything to jump off, I'd say any kitten would be lucky to escape from your clutches," chuckles the other man, sticking his hands in his pockets and swaggering. He's not as drunk as his friend, but he's still tipsy.

"My marriage is perfectly fine, I'll t-thank you, Redder. At least _I'm _m-married."

"I'm eighteen, though," explains Redder, shaking his head sadly. Why had he picked such an incompetent friend? And one with such a liking to strong beer. "Danna wants to wait a few years. Unlike your girl, what's her name?"

"I c-can't remember and I don't want to," laughs the first man, stumbling. "Don't you think, R-Redder, that we haven't had enough to drink? I think...I think we should h-head back t-to that bar and get some more alcohol."

"Right, right. What _you _need right now is a smack on the head, McPherson." He grins and does just that and his friend launches back. The two get into a playful, friendly fight, bopping and lightly hitting each other, laughing and slurring cusses at each other. They're lucky they've forgotten the wands in their pockets, or one of them might have ended up dead. By accident, of course.

"Knock it off, Redder," McPherson finally says, shoving Redder away. "Let's go,"

"Before your girl gets mad?"

"Fuck off, Redder."

Redder starts traipsing around in the ditch, laughing and doing a strange dance.

"You look so stupid!"

"Let's see you do it, then."

"Yeah, right, like I'm as dumb as you are? Redder? Hey, stop playing, man, come on! Redder!" he swears and stumbled down after his friend, wishing it was lighter. "Redder, what the fuck, man? Come on, this isn't fucking funny any more."

"Shut up, McPherson. There's a kid over her!"

"A kid? What the bloody hell is a _kid _doing, sleeping in a ditch?"

"I dunno, but he's all covered in blood, or something. Should we help him?"

"Fuck if I know. We _should _just leave him here. He's problem some Muggle. Come on, Redder, get a spine. Stop being such a wuss. Let's just go."

"What if he isn't a Muggle? We could use him. The Dark Lord would want to know about this."

"You're an idiot. He'd kill us for wasting our time." growls McPherson. "I'm leaving," he starts off, expecting Redder to be right behind him. Turning, he sees Redder picking the kid up and preparing to Apparate off. "Shit. You weren't _kidding?_ Are you _trying _to get killed?"

"Just help me." called Redder, the boy dangling over his shoulder. Sighing, McPherson, being larger, grabbed the kid.

"Come on, then."

/

Jone opens his eyes, confused. Where was he? Where was Ettie? What had happened? And then he remembers.

Ettie is dead.

_Jone stumbles out of the house, still sobbing and covered in blood. He doesn't know where to go. He has spent his entire waking moments at Ettie's house, ever since he had forgotten everything. So he just walks off, in some random direction. He recalls lights, several kilometres away and decides to head that way. _

_As he walks, cars zip by, but no one stops. The first time, he stares wildly at the vehicle, amazed and fascinated. Has he ever seen one of these before? He doesn't recall. But the moving vehicle makes him feel queasy, so he avoids them. _

_Eventually, he is just too tired and passes out in a ditch. _

So how did he end up here? In this room. A quick glance around tells him it's certainly nicer off than his room at Ettie's. The blankets, while not new, don't have holes in them. It's dim, but he is used to that, and there is a large mirror on top of a wooden box. He scrambles out of the bed, towards the door, curious. Perhaps he has been found by his real family.

The mirror amazes him as well. Looking at it, he sees a young boy with dark hair and round, over sized glass circles. The boy looks sad and is covered in bruises. He is pale and frightened, like one of the rabbits that inhabits Ettie's cabbage patch. The boy is...him. Crap. He leans in, taking in his appearance. Does he _really _look so scrawny and pale? And the mark, the one he scratches at, it is shaped like a _lightning bolt. _What on earth had he gotten involved in before losing his memories?

The door opens and an older, blonde man stands in the doorway. He looks angry yet surprised, as if he hadn't expected to see Jone there. Jone notices his clenched fists and the scowl. The man seems frustrated, annoyed. Jone doesn't like him.

"Hello, Filius." says the man, coming in and flicking something on the wall. The room floods with light, making Jone blink and his eyes pop.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you, Filius."

"I'm Jone. Who's Filius?" asks Jone in confusion. He has never met this man before today. Or has he?

The man laughs, but he's not really amused, Jone can see that.

"No, no. When you got hurt, your memory must have been scrambled. No, your name is Filius Domini. Your father, Tom, he's been very worried about you. You've been missing for almost a month." A shudder runs up the man's body when he says 'Tom', as if he is afraid, or in pain.

"Are you my dad?"

"No, I'm Lu-Luce. I'm Luce. I'm a friend of your father." Again, he puts a strange emphasis on 'friend'. "Why don't you put on the clothes in your dresser and come downstairs. We've been so eager to see you."

"There's more of you?" He hadn't expected there to be an entire family waiting for him.

"Yes," Luce says, laughing. "All of your family and your father's employees. We're very loyal, he considers us all his family."

"Am I really his son then, or just 'family'?"

"You? You're really Tom's son, yes. And don't be nervous or shy. It'll be okay. A few people will seem to be upset or angry, but ignore them. They're just jealous of your status as the boss's son. Alright?" Jone nods and the man smiles (a pained looking smile) and closes the door.

When Jone, or Filius, or whoever the hell he is supposed to be now, finishes putting on the new clothes, which are warm and dry and clean, Luce knocks on the door.

"Come on, let's go. Don't want to upset your father."

Jone, who feels uncomfortable with the name 'Filius' nods and follows the man out into the hallway, glancing around. The house is old, at least as old as Ettie's. Except this is much neater and well-kept. The carpets were clean and the walls didn't have jelly smeared on them. Except for the funny smell, Jone decides that he likes it here.

They walk down a flight of stairs, past door after door of elaborately decorated bedrooms and sitting rooms and just _rooms. _Jone isn't sure why anyone would need so many rooms, and he is positive that, if it weren't for Luce, he will probably get lost.

"Hello, Tom." Luce says nervously, as they walk into one of the larger sitting rooms. The room is filled with candles and the fire is high, popping and snapping in the grate. Jone shivers, staring at the snake that lies, sprawling, across chairs and the floor, its head sitting in the lap of the most terrifying man Jone has ever (or never) met.

The man is pale. Stone pale, the colour completely drained from his face. He has snake-like features, slit-like eyes and slit-like nose. His mouth is cruel and hard, not even smiling. He seems uncaring, and yet, smug, settled into his chair, watching Luce and Jone.

"My son," he says, and even his voice is cold, sending sharp chills down Jone's back. The boy frowns, wishing that everyone is confused and that he isn't this cold, uncaring man's son. "How" he breathes in, thinking, "_nice _to finally see you back where you belong. We have missed you. _All _of us," he says, waving his hands at the others in the room.

There's a blonde woman and dark-haired woman. A ratty looking man and a dark-skinned man. The last person is brown-haired, large, building-like. They all smile at Jone, but he can feel tension in the room, the air of nervousness. He flinches as the dark-haired woman, who has heavy eye-lids and a dark expression, smiles at him. She looks like a hungry cat, waiting to pounce. Jone makes a note to stay away from her.

"Where have you been, Filius? We searched everywhere for you? Some of my employees found you in a ditch." says his father. The man shoots Luce a look that Jone interprets as '_And why, as my loyal employee, did _you _not find my precious son? Remove yourself from my presence._' Luce flinches and nods, waving to the others. All but the blonde woman exit the room. She, instead, stands behind Tom's chair, looking apprehensive.

"This, Filius, is your Auntie," Tom explains, waving a hand casually at the woman. She smiles back at Jone, but the smile is somewhat smarmy and fake, only confusing Jone even more. If this woman was his aunt, why would she have such a cruel smile? "Call her Auntie Cissy. She will take care of you, help you. It will be her job to help the process of restoring your memory. We will reteach you."

"What is your job, sir?" Jone aks suddenly. Tom laughs, not neccesarily a nice laugh.

"My job? Jone, I have explained this to you before. You may be fifteen, but you are _much _too young to know about my business."

"I'm fifteen?"

"Do you not remember _anything, _Filius?" The boy shakes his head, looking downcast and sad. "We'll have to start you on your memories right away, then. Cissy, please, take him away."

Cissy nods and walks towards Jone, gripping his arm and leading him to the door. Outside, she pauses for a moment to take him in.

"Well, child? What _do_ you remember? Your name, your age, any memories of me or your father or Luce? Any of this home?"

Feeling ashamed, Jone shakes his head. "I've only been told that my name is Filius Domini and that I'm fifteen years old. And that Tom Riddle is my father."

"Yes," she says, nodding. "But you musn't call him 'Tom'. Call him Father, or, if you're uncomfortable with that, Lord or Master. Even if you do not remember us, we remember you, Filius. So you must behave. Do you understand me?"

He nods.

"Good. First thing, whatever you were told before, whatever they said your name was, your story was, it's a lie. Your name is Filius Domini, son of Tom Riddle. No other name is true. You shall only answer to Filius or Young Master Domini. Forget your old name, and you will remember your first life."

/

_**An idea (in case you were doing it wrong): Luce's name 'loose'. **_

_**Filius 'Fill-e-us' Domini 'Dome-e-nee'**_

_**Amita 'Ahm-e-tah'**_

_**Hermione (siriusly?) 'Hur-meye-o-nee'**_

_**Ettie 'Eat-tee' **_

_**100 points and a box of their favorite cookies to the person who tells me EXACTLY what's wrong with Ettie. (Why was she insane?) And any guesses on where the REAL Jone is?**_

_**I'm aware Ettie is speaking French, not Dutch or Chinese. I would expect a lot of little spatters of language throughout this story and others. I love languages!**_

_**You know, I think the worst part of this is the cussing. I feel awful about it...**_


	9. Not According to Plan

_**Hey-lo! And welcome to another torturous episode of that story that has Latin titles, so I have no idea what it means (b/c that stupid author can't be bothered to translate it...) Not that you care, but here's an update on MY life! : Since I start my A/N ahead of time, I have no idea what the situation will be when this published. So, if this is in July, I apologise, I was at camp. If this is in June, hey, I'm going to be gone for a week to go to camp! Secondly, I have decided that you all hate me and I'm going to refuse to write another chapter (after this) ever! **_

_**JUST KIDDING! You know I wouldn't do that. (Even if you do hate me) Now, on with the story! **_

_**Remember, children, the spellcheck button is our friend.**_

/

"Milord," murmurs Severus, stepping up to bow towards his Master. His face is hidden by a mask, as is everyone else's, but after a dozen or more years in the same company as the same people standing before him, he recongises all their voices. Unfortunately, they also recongise his voice.

"What news do you have from Dumbledore, my slippery spy?" asks Voldemort, looking amused. Severus feels his mouth dry as he prepares his report. Voldemort and Dumbledore are the only ones who ever have this effect on him-Dumbledore less and less each day.

"We...still have no idea on the whereabouts of the Potter boy, Milord. Dumbledore is sending his best to find him," Severus hears chuckles behind him, whether of disbelief or for other reasons, he can not tell. Severus has never been complimented for his skills with people. "And they have found out about the Dursleys. Somehow, Black and the werewolf slipped out."

"Hm," hisses Voldemort, smiling at Severus, still crouched on the floor. "Interesting. A shame for you, though, that this is old news. In fact, it would seem that most of my Death Eaters are bringing me old news, isn't that right Lucius?" More chuckling as one of the cloaked and masked figures shuddered, twisting away.

"You know the price of failure, Severus. You know the price of old news," whispers Voldemort, raising his wand.

This is not the first time the Cruciatus curse had been put on Severus. He was used to the pain. Bring a wrong message, you were punished. Bring a late message, you were punished. Question the Dark Lord, you were punished. Obviously no one had directly _died _because of this. It was always acclaimed to something else, such as they had been killed by enemies of the Dark Lord. Or they were sick, perhaps.

You didn't leave the ranks of the Death Eaters and not die.

But, this was the first time that the curse has been bad enough to make him have hallucinations. After the whole ordeal, he slumps through the hallways, looking for a bathroom. He has just enough pride to pretend that he isn't going to be sick, leaving the meeting room, but the second he is out of sight of that _aggravating _ass, Malfoy, he stumbles about, looking for a bathroom.

Instead, he finds himself in the grips of visions. Because, sitting in a chair across from him, in a darkened bedroom, was _Harry Potter._ Except, Potter was missing. _Dead. _Right? So this little brat in front of him was just a device of torture his pained mind had come up with.

"What did I ever do to deserve this?" he moans, settling against the door frame, cradling his head in his hands. 'Potter' looks up at him, bewildered. His green eyes appear frightened, possibly because of him. Or perhaps it wasn't fright, but the usual condescending smirk that Potter so often graced Severus with. Even hallucination Potter annoyed Severus to no end. He wants to slap the boy, but knows that the child isn't real. The room is empty and he is having nightmares.

"I don't know. Perhaps you should ask someone else?" murmurs 'Potter', giving him a panicked look. "I don't think I can help you much. Are you sick?"

"Of course you can't help!" Severus snaps, glaring at the hallucination. "You're not real. You're a thing in my mind. It's been known to happen. Look at what happened to the Longbottoms. They _live _in a fantasy world."

"H-Hallucination? What's that?"

"Why are you as dumb in my mind as you are in real life, Potter?"

Potter's head snaps up, blinking at him. He pales, his hands twitching. The boy scoots away, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. "W-Who's Potter? I'm F-Filius," he stammers, glancing around the room nervously.

"Filius?" Severus repeats. His stomach is churning and his head is pounding. He is having trouble thinking straight. The boy nods. "And do you belong here Filius?" The boy nods again. A horrible feeling washes through Severus, as he looks the boy up and down. "You're real, aren't you, Filius?"

Again, another nod. "You don't remember me? You don't recall anything about me?"

"Should I?" asks the boy, and it's the most terrifying thing to look at his green eyes, wide and innocent. He is telling the truth-he honestly believes he has never met Severus before.

"Very well," says Severus, backing away as calmly as he can. In the hallway, he blinks at the brightness compared to the room.

"Good evening, once again, Severus. I see you've met our guest." smirks Lucius, appearing from one of the many rooms of the Riddle House. "Have you two been having a pleasant conversations?"

"How long have you been hiding Potter?" Severus asks, not even bothering to glare at the elder man.

"Just long enough for you to find him and run back to inform the Order. Have fun doing so, by the way. In case you were thinking about it, I'll let you in on a secret. The _Master _has put a curse on you, to hold your snaky tongue."

"Are you threatening me, Lucius?" Severus takes a step closer, his fingers tightening around his wand.

"No, never. Merely warning you, in case you try anything. And I go by Luce here, Severus." says Lucius, smirking and turning away.

/

"Well, Severus? What news of the Death Eaters do you bring us?" asks Dumbledore, looking on calmly as the pale, hook-nosed professor stands sullenly. Severus is reminded greatly of the similarities between Voldemort and the old man before him. He is not sure who he despises more right now.

"The Dark Lord has...gained a child, as of late," says Severus, recalling Lucius' warnings of a curse, should he reveal Potter's location. "A young man, of about fifteen. I believe you know him?"

Dumbledore leans forward eagerly, peering at his ex-student's face. "Severus, are you implying that Voldemort has Harry?"

Others around them gasp, staring at Severus with shocked looks. Severus sits back in his chair, still sullen faced.

"I can not say either way, sir," Severus replies, nodding slowly. He feels ridiculous playing these child's games. Obviously, Voldemort knew that Snape would tell the Order of Potter's existence anyway, coded of course. What was the point of hexing him? Or was he even hexed to begin with? Playing head games with the Dark Lord was both annoying and dangerous.

"We have to rescue him!" cries Sirius, looking at Dumbledore. "I can help!"

"What is it you think you can do, Black? I've explained where Potter is, you've told us that the Dursleys are dead and Diggle's lost-no thanks to the werewolf here-what is it we can do, except rescue precious Potter? _Without you_." sneers Severus, glaring across the table at Sirius.

"The worst thing we can do is do nothing at all," murmurs Emmeline, glancing nervously between them. "Surely there's _some _way to get Potter without loss of life and limb?"

"Yes, without Black. The idiot will only mess things up, as usual."

"You shut up, _Snivellus!_" yells Sirius, wishing he has a knife. "Maybe we ought to leave _you _here, instead! Clearly you're not in favor of your "_Master_" right now." Both men jump up, snarling at each other. They look ready to pounce each other at any moment, growling and scowling.

"Severus, Sirius, please," murmurs Dumbledore and they both fall silent, glaring at each other from across the table. "This is why I can never sit you next to each other. You are thirty-five years old and still fight like children."

"Fighting's not going to find Harry, Sirius." says Remus, grabbing his friend's sleeve and pulling him to his seat.

"Well then, what _are _we supposed to do?" asks Elphias, looking at everyone at the table. They all look worn out, defeated. Their "chosen one" is in the hands of the enemy. What are they going to do? Who is going to die before this war is over?

"We plan," says Dumbledore, standing confidently. "We plan. Severus, I need you to memorise where Harry is, figure out how to get him out. We will need to disguise ourselves. I hope to have Mr. Potter walking the halls of Hogwarts by September."

/

The four remaining Weasley children and Hermione Granger step out of the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron, whooshed out by swirling green flames. Hermione coughs, brushing the soot off her jumper, glancing around. There are dozens of other families, bustling around, carrying bags and talking. A chair zooms by as Mr. Weasley follows behind Hermione, accidentally bumping her.  
>"Sorry, Hermione," he says, catching her by the elbow. "My bad." The Weasley twins, Fred and George, help their mother through the fireplace, grinning cheekily. Even when innocent, the twins were incapable of looking anything less than completely guilty.<p>

"Come on, let's go," fusses Mrs. Weasley, trying to dust off Ginny, despite her daughter's opposing squawks. "I don't want to take any longer than neccesary. Dumbledore said to not dither," She starts for the door leading to the brick wall and they all follow after her, Ginny still grumbling.

Hermione had always been amazed by Diagon Alley. Perhaps it was the part of her that still doubted magic, or perhaps it was just that she was Muggleborn and hadn't been shopping here for forever, but she loved the tottering shops, the wares that called out their own bargains, the withered old hags that gossiped in dark corners.

But today, something had happened. The magic seems almost, well, duller. Faded. The place was less crowded than expected, considering there was only a week left until Hogwarts. There were also more people, standing around and watching, not doing anything. Hermione watches them apprehensively as they file into Gringotts. When she steps back out with her purse jingling with coins, they're still there.

"All right," says Mrs. Weasley, looking around at them all. "I hate to do this, but I guess the fastest way would be to split up. Arthur, perhaps you could go with the boys and I'll take the girls to collect their books and such?" She was very jittery, glancing around.

"Alright," agrees Mr. Weasley, giving his wife a comforting look. He waved at the boys and they started off in the opposite direction.

Mrs. Weasley rushes them into Madam Malkin's, twitching the entire time as they were fitted for robes. She murmurs to herself as Ginny collects Potions ingredients and as Hermione insists on reading through the beginning chapters of a textbook in the book store. She didn't want the girls to stop for too long, hurrying from place to place so they could leave as soon as possible. As Ginny and Mrs. Weasley exited the book shop, Hermione having asked to stay inside for a few more minutes, Ginny couldn't help but notice how empty the place seems.

"Hey, isn't that Colin?" says Ginny, pointing at a boy sitting on the steps in front of Gringotts. He looks a lot like Colin Creevey, but much more downcast, staring at the ground sadly. Ginny came over to him, ignoring Mrs. Weasley's squawkings behind them.

"Colin, are you okay?" asks Ginny, sitting next to Colin. He looks up at them, giving them a miserable look, and puts his head in his hands. "Where's Dennis?" Dennis Creevey was Colin's little brother, a Second Year. The brothers were Muggleborn and proud of it, often boasting about how proud their dad was of them. But right now, Colin didn't seem to pleased.

"Dennis is gone," he murmurs, scraping his shoes on the stone. "He's been taken."

"Taken?" repeats Ginny, giving him a confused look. Why would anyone take a twelve year old boy? "Taken where? And by whom?"

"Dunno. Just know that he was home alone and we came back and he was gone. They've been rounding up Muggleborns all summer. Something about keeping them safe from Death Eaters," says Colin dully. "I should probably go. See you, Ginny," he says and gets up, still looking at the ground.

Ginny nods and then turns to her mother. "Maybe we should go look for Hermione. I don't want anything to happen to her as well." Mrs. Weasley says, shooting an anxious look after Colin. "That poor boy,"

Ginny follows after her mother into the bookstore, calling Hermione's name, but there was no answer. The bushy-haired witch was missing, her books still stacked around where she had been sitting, as if she had just pulled from the air itself.

"Oh no," moans Mrs. Weasley, glancing around as if she hoped Hermione would just pop up and say it was all a big mistake. But nothing happened. "Oh no. First Harry, now Hermione? What are we going to do?"

Ginny shivers, realising her mother is actually asking _her_. "I dunno, Mum. I dunno." She feels empty, hopeless. There is _nothing _they can do, she thinks, picking up one of Hermione's books. Everyone was disappearing and dying and there wasn't a _damn _thing Ginny could do.

/

_**This is driving me crazy. I'm writing two stories simultaneously, right? Ultimum and another story, The Potters. So, I start off on this, write about 3 paragraphs and get stuck. So I switch over to Story 2, write 2 and a half pages and get stuck. Come back here, write 4 or 5 paragraphs, and get stuck. Switch over, write another page and get stuck. You see my problem? And then, I come back here, at two in the morning, expecting this to seem very good this early in the morning, but even now, it sucks. I delete the entire page, take a break, come back. Guess what my cat did? Sat on the keyboard and deleted the outline for the rest of the story. So, I search all over, looking for the dang thing, find it, pull it up and then realise-I didn't even get rid of the first copy of this chapter. And the internet is down, so I can't do any research. **_

_**And that is why this chapter is crappy. I'm going mad. **_

_**You guys are going to hate me as the story continues. The Outline is already to Chapter 22. **_


	10. Lessons Learned

_**A/N: Ok, obviously this is AU, which, I feel, gives me the right to change a whole lot of crap in this story. Which also means that some stuff that could never happen in the books is a-happenin' here. Get over it. **_

_**Don't worry, I'm bringing my work to camp, so that I might be caught up when I come back on the ahhh (checks Calendar) first of July.**_

_**Kitty Kitty Simba says: you should all have a nice day and ignore the RUDE little girl. (turns to glare at Lana) **_

_**Let the fun begin! **_

_**/**_

It's funny, how our minds work. They tell us many things and we accept them. Like that once someone is dead, no amount of magic can bring them back. We believe that, don't we? _You _believe it, as well. After all, that is what you have been taught. But what if it _were _possible to 'raise the dead' so to speak? Who would _you _bring back? And what would you do with them? And as we know, Voldemort has never been one for listening to the rules. What is _he _were capable of bringing back the dead? No, not with Hallows, with something else. Something..._**worse. **_

There is, _was_ an old man who lived on the grounds of the Riddle House named Frank Bryce. Not entirely happy, getting on in age. Almost entirely deaf and long ago shot in the leg. The groundskeeper, though somewhat reluctantly. Remember him? He had his own little chapter, an entire explanation summed up in a few pages, all to himself. He is, _was_ a war veteran, disgraced and injured. He imagined , or possibly really did have, pains in his leg as he is making tea. He sees a light in the Riddle House. And then, he got a leeeeeeetle too curious. So Voldemort killed him. Remember that? The way they so carelessly discussed murdering a child, right in front of him. And then, sensing the 'filthy Muggle', Voldemort sets his snake, Nagini, on the man.

Fabian remembers it. Yes, Fabian remembers everything that happened to Frank. Because Fabian was _there. _Right there, when Frank was killed. But don't worry, Fabian's not mad about Frank, oh no. He's too busy with _other _plans. His Master's plans. Voldemort has many uses for his newest servant. He has many creative ideas.

Because, after all, if one is going to kill a man, they must do something with the body. Right?

_**/**_

"Look at this," growls Sirius, tossing the morning newspaper down to the other end of the table, where the Weasleys were sitting. Hermione had been missing for a week now. No one could locate her. According to Kingsley, over three dozen Muggleborns, including several adults and a eight year old girl, had "disappears", virtually just poofed from existence, as if they never existed. Colin Creevey himself had dropped out of the known world just hours after Ginny had seen him at Diagon Alley.

_Excerpt from the Daily Prophet, August 31 1995, Jeanna Grinkle _

"_Everyone knows of Harry Potter, the famous "Boy-Who-Lived". At fifteen, he is coming upon his fifth year at Hogwarts as a Gryffindor. Just last June, he claimed to have "fought" You-Know-Who and see fellow student, Cedric Diggory (18) "murdered" by a "Death Eater", or follower of You-Know-Who. Of course, as the Prophet has reported before, Mr. Potter has been accused of spreading falsehoods to scare the local population. _

"_He's a bit of a legend, but as with all children, it went to his head. He began seeing things that aren't there," reports Minister Cornelius Fudge. "He began to make up stories about how he met He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in the maze at the end of the TriWizard Tournament-something he may or may have not entered himself in. We still haven't proven that he didn't actually slip his own name in."_

_However, is it true that Mr. Potter will not be returning to Hogwarts this year, not because he is a shameless liar, but because he is, in fact, no longer alive? Sources tell the Daily Prophet that Mr. Potter has been dead since late July. _

_Our source, who wishes to remain anonymous, claims that Mr. Potter's own uncle, a Muggle named Vernon Dursley, was the one that killed the boy. _

"_Well, yeah, it's the uncle's fault. What else could you expect from a Muggle?" _

_So the question remains. Is Mr. Potter dead or not? And if he is, who killed him? If not, where is he and what wild stories is he telling now?"_

"This is awful," snarls Fred, glaring at the newspaper in front of him "I can't believe they would report something like _this!_"

"Like what?" asks Ron, leaning over to look at the paper. He scanned it quickly, scowling as he read. "What the hell!" he swears, making a finger sign. Luckily, the only adult in the room was Sirius, who was sitting, propped in his chair, his own scowl wide and deep.

"I can't believe anyone would say that," mutters Fred, handing the paper to Ginny. "That's sick."

"Yeah, well, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Harry _is _dead. We might know a little more about everything, but for all we know, Harry could be dead by the time they get him back," says Sirius, adopting a very bitter expression. He still wasn't allowed out of the house to do anything. Annoyed with everyone, he drank constantly, grumbling to himself and wandering the halls of Number 12 at odd hours. Every day, he seems to wither away even more, growing more and more angry with everyone-Remus, Dumbledore, Snape. He appears to be, even now, frustrated with the kids, who stare back at him.

"Someone should tell them the truth, then," says Ginny, folding the newspaper up and sliding it back towards Sirius, who glances at it, then, jabbing his wand at it, ignites it. They all sit there in disgust and shock as the paper crumples, burning and blackening.

"Who? You?" laughs Sirius, taking a sip of Firewhisky. "_I _sure can't. And besides, they'd arrest me first. Why don't you go tell the world that their saviour isn't dead. Just in the hands of the enemy," he smirks, grabs his bottle and wobbles out of the room, followed by a cloud of stale beer and not enough showers.

"Someone needs to help Sirius as well," mumbled Ron, looking at the still swinging kitchen door. Grimmauld Place seems empty most days, with a majority of the members scurrying around England, trying to figure out where Harry was and how to rescue him. Sure, Snape had seen him, but the man had no idea where Harry was being kept. Apparently, Death Eaters were to Apparate directly into a room within the house, so as to keep the location of their secret hideout, well, _secret. _

"If you ask me, the Prophet has no more tact than Ron," snickers George, earning a smack on the head from Ron. "What? It's true!"

"Sirius has a point, though," says Ginny, looking around at them all, her brown eyes wide. Her face is flushed, as if Sirius' words have effected her very person. "What _are _we going to do? School's starting tomorrow and we _still _have no idea where Harry is. The only thing the Order's managed is to lose Diggle and Hermione. _We _need to find Harry and Hermione and the others. Soon."

_**/**_

Filius thinks he hates his father, something he keeps to himself. This is a rebellious thought, here at his father's home. He has seen people tortured for the most ridiculous of reasons. Speaking at the wrong time, bringing late news, becoming upset in front of Tom. Filius has seen many masked, cloaked people, mainly men, nod respectfully to him, but he also sees the fear in their eyes. Why? What had he done to these people that he doesn't recall? Who among them has he hurt? Has he, like his father, tortured these people for his own amusement.

They called the non-magic people, the people not like him, "Muggles". Often, the Death Eaters, as his father's followers were called, would discuss various methods of killing these apparent lesser beings. The first time he had personally experienced this was after just three weeks of tutoring from Cissy and Amita.

One of the crueler men, a man named Mulciber, steps forward, smirking. Behind him is a woman, barely older than Filius. Her brown hair is lank, dirty, and unkempt. Her dress is several days old, at least, caked in dirt. She appears tired and worn, but willing to do anything Mulciber tells her to. She is already broken. He waves her forward and the circle of masked men close in. Filius can taste their eagerness, so heavy in the air. He feels disgusted, but curious. Had he ever helped to drag these broken young girls into the meeting room?

They mock her for a bit, chanting and crowing at her. She stands there calmly, eyes dulled and her face emotionless. They yell at her to dance, to sing, to do something. Most of the men here are married, but not happily so. They want entertainment. She just stands there, blank.

"Ah, this is no fun!" yells someone, shoving the girl. She stumbles, nearly falling. Someone else laughs, shoves her, and suddenly they're all in it, taking turns to push her and smack her, yelling to "get the Muggle filth away!" They swear that they would never want this _thing, _only their middle-aged but pure-blooded wives, who sit at home, waiting for them. As they shove her, they rip at her dress, until she is more naked then clothed. They laugh, like a flock of birds, at her body, as she struggles to cover it up. The only emotion left, embarrassment.

She is shoved again and whirls too close to one of the men, who screams and pushes her. She falls to the ground and does not get up, doesn't even shiver, just laying on the ground. Someone groans and another grumbles about how the girls never last very long.

They move in closer, kicking and punching at her. Laying blows wherever they can get them. She is bleeding from a half dozen places or more, but no one does anything to stop it. Not even Filius, who thinks he's about to throw up, watching this. He feels sick and dirty, like he himself is in the group abusing this girl. He feels just as guilty as if he himself were murdering her.

Eventually, Tom holds up a hand, commanding them to stop. They slip away from the bruised and bloody figure on the floor. She still doesn't move, doesn't speak. But she is still breathing, someone calls out. She's still alive, somehow. Tom nods at Mulciber, who comes forward with a wand,pointing it at her, but it's not a mercy killing.

"_Crucio!_" he yells and her body convulses, twitching and shuddering. Her eyes are wide, but emotionless. She is so far gone, even the pain is beyond her. Screams rip out of her, but they're just reactions. The pain courses through her body, but it is numbed, diluted. Yes, it hurts, Filius can see it hurts, but Cissy grabs his arm, pulling him back.

"She is not yours, boy," Cissy hisses in his ear, pulling him against a wall. "Leave her to Mulciber."

Filius covers his mouth, trying to turn away, but he finds he can't. He has to watch. And still, her body rocks back and forth, endlessly for minute after minute and there's blood all over the floor. She is still bleeding, still screaming in endless numbed pain, until _finally _Mulciber stops, dropping his wand to his side. He turns to look at his Master, drunk with his own power.

"May I, Master?" he asks, gesturing to the girl. His breath is heavy as he pants, his own body shaking, as if someone has just tortured _him_. He takes his mask off, the first to do so tonight, eagerly looking at his master's face. "May I?"

Tom smiles, waving his hand at the girl, nodding. "Who am I to deny you your own dinner? You brought her here. Finish her."

"_Avada Kedavra!_" Mulciber yells and the girl, who had staggered to her feet, crumples to the ground like a rag doll, her body collapsing to the floor. Filius doesn't need to hear Mulciber's screams to know she is dead. Her eyes had been empty before, but now, she isn't even breathing. Her mouth is still twisted in a sad smile, her eyes still open as she stares, unseeingly, at her captors.

Filius turns away, throwing up on the cold marble floor, once, twice, three times. He retches, hoping it will clean him of these horrors that he just watched. That he just participated in, because he did nothing. It is his fault the girl is dead, because he did _nothing. _What was there he could do?

_**/**_

"You think us disgusting, Filius, now that you have spent time in the rest of the world. You must find us unnerving. It is a shame that you have forgotten everything. There is so much we taught you, so much about the truth. And now," Tom turns away, looking at a wall away from Filius. "Now, we disgust you. You despise us, don't deny it. I can see it in your face."

Filius still thinks his father looks like a snake. A great, grey snake, with sunken red eyes and small slits for a nose. Even his attitude is snaky. His father is constantly present, constantly there. Filius can't seem to ignore him, or his father's snake, an enormous female named Nagini.

"You even question if I am truly your father," says Tom and all Filius can hear is a sad voice. A _sorrowful _voice. He is crushed that his son doubts him, upset that his child has been ripped away and filled with doubt. Filius immediately wants to do everything he can to reassure his father, to make up for what he has said and done.  
>"I am sorry. It is all just so confusing, and my head hurts constantly because I <em>try <em>to remember, but it's as if I can't. I'm sorry," he mumbles, looking away from his father. Neither of them are looking at each other, one full of sadness, the other confusion.

"I do not blame you. I only blame the people who have confused you. _They _are the evil ones."

"I don't understand. What do you mean, Father?" asks Filius, scrunching his nose. "Someone _intentionally _made me forget?"

Tom nods gravelly, looking very sad, yet powerful. "I have many enemies, Filius. They should like to see me, and you, dead. Somehow, they got to you and cursed you, so that you forgot everything. And then they dropped you with a spy of theirs, that woman, the one you called Ettie. She tried to tell you lies, but now you are back and learning the truth."

"Ettie is not my mother, then?"

"Of course not! She wished to kill you the entire time. Don't you wonder why the food was bad, or why she would lock you out? Don't you wonder why she constantly was doing strange things?"

"How do you know that?" asks Filius, astonished. He had only told Amita and Cissy that.

"The girls, your aunts, they must tell me everything, so that I know what you are learning and what the enemy has told you. That way we can help you even more."

Filius twitched slightly as his father glanced at him. Again, he was hit with the feeling that he should not love this man, nor call him 'father'.

"Prove to me your my father," says Filius, trying to sound braver than he feels. "Prove it. Everyone here _says _you are, but I look nothing like you."

"A spell, Filius, has changed my image, but before, I looked very similar to you. I had the same dark hair, the same pale skin. But that was many years ago, back before my enemies began to call me evil. Oh, yes, Filius, some people think what we do is wrong. But the truth is, all we are doing is cleansing the world of its impurities. Yet you ask for proof of my lineage? Very well. Do you know what Parseltongue is?"

"Yes. Amita says it is a rare gift, when you can talk to snakes. I can do that."

"So can I. You received the talent from me. Only my son would be able to do such a thing, do you understand?"

"Yes, but why do you not teach me everything? Why does Amita and Cissy teach me?"

"I have bigger things to do, Filius. I am very important. Besides, Amita and Cissy taught you before. They teach you again. I can not be bothered. I do not have the patience." Tom gets up to leave.

"Amita says I'm destined to do great things. Is that true?" asks Filius, watching his father.

"You are my son." replies Tom simply, and then leaves. Filius nods to himself, thinking. Yes, that man _is _his father. No matter what lies Ettie had tried to fill his head with. He _is _Tom's son. He will do as Tom and the others say. He must be obedient and respectful. He must be Filius Domini.

_**/**_

_**I can already see your minds boiling with questions. One, I'm sure, is why Voldemort is allowing his Death Eaters to "play" with a Muggle girl. Simple: They hate Muggles, the guys need some amusement, and Voldemort is perfectly okay with it. (Plus, I wanted to show you what sick bastards they are.) **_

_**And of course Ms. Skeeter can't be the reporter for this, ahem, "special" edition. She's still under oath to not report, something she was forced into by Hermione last July. Hey, if you're going to write Fanfiction, why not be as accurate as possible? **_

_**Feel nice for me. I have been working really hard to make sure this never falls behind. I has been doing good, right? RIGHT ? **_

_**Also, I would recommend fearing Fabian very much. VERY VERY MUCH! **_


	11. Liars and Cheats

_**A/N: And Now, the closest thing I can get to a Harry-less chapter. (Description of Luna comes from the 5**__**th**__** book, but I changes it to make it more...Ron. Umbridge's intro/after-feast-speech is based off the book intro.) "I swear, I was going to finish this chapter by June 22, but then I started a Harry Potter Marathon right before heading off to church camp and...well, I couldn't compel myself to write. I was in tears the entire weekend. It was devastating. I made a HUGE mistake. And I AM GOING TO CAMP TOMORROW SO DO NOT PANIC! I WILL BE BACK BY JULY 1ST AND BE POSTING A NEW CHAPTER WITHIN A WEEK! (You know, it seems like I have a new excuse EVERY time...but they're NOT excuses, they're true! I swear!) So, I apologise if the story is not at its usual par. **_

_**/**_

Ron had had, ever since finding out the truth about Harry, that the boy wasn't really dead, some strange fantasy that the boy would just show up at the front door, explaining how it had all been a mistake. He hadn't really been missing at all. And he would bring Hermione with him, laughing at how silly Ron was for thinking they were _gone. _How ridiculous.

In front of him, the train whistle blows, announcing that they have ten minutes to get on the train to Hogwarts. The noise clears his head, and he shakes it a little, wiping at his eyes, which have gone moist, the bloody rebels. He glances around for his sister, hoping no one noticed. Ginny already stands in her own cloud of Fourth Years, laughing and joking. Ahead of him, Fred and George were shoving their stuff into the train, along with Lee Jordan's, most likely discussing pranks. Only Ron was alone. Only Ron stood, singled out, no friends. Even Neville was probably with Seamus and Dean. Or would Dean even be here? Who else has disappeared, stolen from their homes or possibly killed in their own bed?

"Are you okay, Ron?" asks his mother, placing a comforting hand on his back. He looks up at her, nodding. She doesn't need to worry any more than neccesary. She is already in the Order, already frantic about Harry and Hermione. She doesn't need to fret over him, too. Sometimes, Ron can be mature.

"Of course I am. I'm looking for Neville, is all." Ron mutters, hoping his mother doesn't known Ron has never _not _sat without someone else on the train ride to school. If he can't find Neville, this will be the first time he is truly _alone _on the train. He shrugs his mum's hand off, turning to give her a comforting smile, to reassure her. The very idea is unnerving.

"Ron! Hey, Ron!" yells Neville Longbottom, a round-faced boy who has always slept two beds down from him. Usually, Harry was in between them. Usually, Harry was standing next to Ron, or helping load their trunks into a compartment. "Hey," Neville says, stopping in front of him and looking around, puzzled. "Where's Harry?"

"Uh, dunno. Haven't talked to him this summer." mumbles Ron, as his mum slips off to go hug Ginny good-bye. He looks back at Neville, who looks eager but nervous. Trevor, his escape artist of a toad, sits boredly in Neville's pocket. "We haven't really been writing any letters,"

"The Daily Prophet says that Harry's dead. Is that true?" asks Neville loudly. This catches the attention of several other students, who turn to listen, hoping to hear some good gossip. "Did his Uncle _really _kill him?"

"Um, how about we get a carriage, first, okay Neville?" mutters Ron, shooting glances at the curious students, who immediately turn away, back to their own conversations, half-turned so to still catch Ron's words. "Then we'll talk."

The two boys head onto the train, wandering around for a carriage. Despite the number of people still outside, all the carriages seem to already have someone in them. The Gryffindors walk all the way the end of the train, unable to find an empty compartment.

"There's, um, only one person in here, I guess?" says Neville, jabbing a finger at the very last one. Ron looks in to see a very strange looking girl. She has tangled, waist-length, dirty blonde hair, very pale eyebrows, and almost bulging eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. Ron can see why Neville was hesitant to not pass this compartment by and keep looking. The girl gave off an air of queerness and oddity. It was probably the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her left ear for what appeared to be safekeeping, or that she had chosen to wear a necklace of Butterbeer caps, or that she was reading a magazine upside down.

"Guess we'll have to, huh?" says Ron, sliding open the door and sticking his head in. "Can we come in?" he asks, peering down at the strange girl. She smiles up at them, setting her magazine down for a second and nods. Ron gives Neville a 'what can we do?' look and comes in, sitting down across from her. She was already wearing her school robes, which were, shockingly, Ravenclaw colours.

"How'd _you _ever get into Ravenclaw?" asks Ron, which makes Neville go scarlet, and the girl to look back up. She slips her magazine into her bag, as if preparing for a conversation that Ron wasn't sure he wanted to have.

"I'm smarter than I look," she says in a dreamy voice, which doesn't surprise Ron at all, the voice. It completes her look if oddness. The answer, however, embarrasses him in a way that is also very annoying, as the question did not appear embarrass her in the slightest, and Ron blushes, glancing away. "Your Ron Weasley," she says in that same voice. "You're always with Harry Potter and that other girl. Where are they?"

"Um, they're not here right now?" he says, raising an eyebrow. How did she know who his friends are? Was she another of Harry's rabid fans or something?

"Did they get taken?" she asks, sympathetic. She leans across to pat his hand, which he jerks away, still confused and a little scared.

"How do you know people are being taken?" he asks, giving Neville a strange look. This girl was obviously either a genius or very crazy.

"Oh, Daddy says it's a plan by the Ministry, to strengthen the Pureblood line, to weaken the rest of the magical community. They want You-Know-Who to win the war, so they're getting rid of the Muggleborns. He says that Muggleborns are some of the brightest wizard and witches we have." Insane, Ron decides. Definitely insane.

"Right," says Neville, shooting Ron a 'what the hell?' look as the girl smiles serenely back at them. "And, um, does your dad know _who _is taking all the Muggleborns?"

"Oh, yes. The Death Eaters are, of course. Who else?" She leans closer, as if preparing to tell them a particularly good secret. "Did you know that the Minister himself is a Death Eater? Oh yes, he's one of the top ones and-"

The door opens and Nigel Wolpert, a Gryffindor Second Year, comes in, looking sad and forlorn. He was a small boy, with blonde hair and usually followed Harry around alongside his friend, Dennis Creevey.

"Hello, Nigel." Neville and Ron say, both recognising the boy. "You okay?" asks Neville, scooting over so Nigel can sit next to them. He does so, sighing as he drops onto the seat.

"No. Dennis and Colin are both gone. Someone said they've both been snatched. And Lavender Brown says that Harry Potter is dead. Is that true?" he asks, turning to look at Ron. Neville and Luna also look at Ron, who frowns and then sighs, giving up.

"Fine, yeah, Harry's disappeared. Dumbledore doesn't think he's dead though, just being hidden by people."

"Who?" asks Nigel.

"Dunno, didn't hear. Just know that Harry _isn't _dead and Dumbledore's looking for him. And the Muggleborns, as well."

_**/**_

Ron ended up riding up to the school in a carriage with the three, feeling very foolish and dumb. He didn't really consider these people his friends, not even Neville, and yet they sat across from him the entire way up, laughing and chatting. Neville and Ron said good-bye to Luna at the front door and Nigel ran off to sit next to another Second Year. The two Fifth Years, unsure, simply sat together at the end of the table with Seamus, who looked rather lonely himself with out Dean.

And now, as they wait for the last First Year (Zeller, Rose Hufflepuff) to scramble down to her seat, Neville looks up at the head table, searching for Hagrid. "Who's that?" he asks, pointing toward the middle of the staff table. Ron and Seamus look at where he's pointing, finding a woman sitting next to Dumbledore, talking to him. She was rather ugly, squat with short, mousy brown hair in which was placed a pink Alice band, matching her equally gaudy pink cardigan, which she wore over her robes. As she turns to take a sip, Ron spots her pallid, toad-like face and a pair of prominent, pouchy eyes.

"Nice cardigan," Ron laughs, shaking his head. "Must be the new Defense teacher, don't you think? We need a new one, now that, er, Moody's gone," says Ron, almost forgetting that Neville and Seamus didn't know that their 'teacher' last year was secretly a Death Eater.

"Hagrid's not here," says Neville, looking at Ron sadly. "That Grubbly-Plank woman is back. Shame. I was getting tired of unicorns," Seamus nods, commenting that he hadn't learned a thing last year when Grubbly-Plank was teaching. It was as if they had forgotten all about the Blast-Ended Screwt incident from last year, something that Ron still remembered painfully, rubbing the permanently pink spot on his bum. But still, the Gryffindors, mostly, were very loyal to Hagrid, defending him against all the other Houses, (along with Parvati and Lavender from their own House) namely the Slytherins.

After they had all stuffed themselves, some more than others, Dumbledore once again stands up, smiling serenely down at all of them.

"Well, I hope we all enjoyed our wonderful feast? I certainly did. But now, I ask for just a few minutes of your time, to make a few announcements. First Years ought to know that the Forest in the grounds in out-of-bounds to students-and a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." (Here, Ron smirks to himself, recalling his adventure into the forest in his Second Year with Harry.)

"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four-hundred-and-sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not allowed in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the quite extensive list fastened to Mr. Filch's look, should anyone be curious.

"We have had two changes in staff this year. We are pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking care of Care of Magical Creatures for the time being; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,"

There was a round of polite but none too enthusiastic applause as Ron gives Neville a frantic look. Dumbledore hadn't said how long Grubbly-Plank would be staying.

"Now, tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the-"

Professor Umbridge stands up, clearing her throat with a surprisingly girly "Hem, hem" and walks towards Dumbledore's podium, clearly intent on making a speech. Dumbledore gives her a slightly taken aback glance before smiling and sitting down in his seat, giving Umbridge his full attention. The other teachers still seem to be in a sort of shock. No one has ever interrupted Dumbledore. Ron smirks to himself. Clearly Umbridge didn't know how things were done here at Hogwarts.

"Thank you, Headmaster," says Umbridge in a sickenly girlish voice "for those kind words of welcome." She clears her throat again with another "Hem, hem" and Ron feels slightly sick to his stomach, deciding that he probably won't be making very good friends with this woman.

"Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts," she says, smiling and revealing very pointed teeth. "And to see such happy little faces smiling back up at me!"

No one seems very happy, Ron thinks, more confused. She acts like we're infants.

"I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all and I'm sure we're be very good friends!" Here, a few kids chuckled, or just glance confusedly at each other, not sure if this woman was truly dense or merely condescending.

She coughs one last time and then begins the most boring speech ever, her voice less breathless and more businesslike, her words dull. Ron didn't listen to a second of it, his head propping on his elbow as he struggles to not fall asleep. Until he hears the word Muggle-born, whh catches the attention of many other students, who seem to perk up, staring at her.

"Lastly, as you all know, several of your, ahem, _friends _did not get on the train today. Some of you might have heard rumours of their whereabouts, but do not fear. The Ministry, and the Minister himself, completely support the idea of a new _All-Muggleborn _school. They will learn with their own kind, study with their own kind, and be protected emotionally from the much smarter and talented Pure-blood and half-blood students here at Hogwarts. This is only in an effort to ensure that all children are given the best opportunity to learn." Umbridge steps away from the podium, sitting in her seat amongst applause from Dumbledore and a few other teachers. Most of the students still were blinking at her, trying to process the fact that _she _knows what has happened to their friends.

"Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating." says Dumbledore, bowing towards her. "Now, as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held..."

"What did that mean?" asks Seamus, giving Neville and Ron a blank-eyed look. "Is she saying she knows where Dean and the others are?"

"I think so, yes. But what did she mean before, about 'progress for progress' sake'?" asks Neville. Ron frowns, trying to recall the first half of her speech, but couldn't remember a thing.

"Dunno," he mutters. "Wasn't listening." He starts from the table then remembers that he and Parvati were the new Gryffindor Prefects and scrambles over to go help her round up the First Years, his mind still churning about Umbridge's speech.

_Did that mean Umbridge knew where Hermione is? And if she was safe or not? _

_**/**_

_Excerpt from the Daily Prophet, September 5 1995, Jeanna Grinkle_

"_The Minister is supposedly in the end processes of the new "All-Muggleborn" magical school, which is being funded entirely by Lucius Malfoy. The school, says Minister Fudge, is for the Muggleborn community's protection._

"_For years, they've felt inadequate next to their Pureblood and half-blood friends. Well, now they can go to a school where everyone is just like them!" says one of the employees working on the project, a half-blood himself. _

_Reporters are going to be allowed access into the school in a month, to report on the shaping of the school alongside pictures. The school is reportedly being named after its benefactor, Lucius Malfoy. In what form the name shall take is currently unknown. _

_Never fear, Muggleborns! A new age is here! We have come to help you," says Lucius Malfoy, benefactor..."_

_**/**_

_**Ok, so technically, Nigel Wolpert is supposed to be Dennis/Colin mixed together, but I love all three of them, so they ALL exist in my story! And, since Nigel was at Hogwarts during the 7**__**th**__**/8**__**th**__** movie, that would imply he's half-blood/pureblood, so he is not taken. **_

_**Ettie is deeply saddened that none of you care about her. Only one person came up with an idea on why she was so crazy. She will haunt all of you in your sleep! **_


	12. Support

_**A/N:Who wants to hear TODAY's excuse on why I'm behind? Trust me, it was NOT laziness on my part this time. See, we've been having this drought thingy for about a year and God decided NO! It will rain now and it great amounts! I will flood the streets! So yay rain! But sadly, this meant no internet or power for almost 3 days. But good news, I have survived the flood! Besides, my mind has failed me, greatly. Thanks, creative part of my brain. Just thanks. Oh, of course, then my parents decided to pull a surprise trip for us, and wouldn't let me bring my computer. (I honestly believe the world hates me.). **_

_**Some of the Umbridge scene was taken from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. (The order of class has not changed from the book, I was just too lazy to write that part and decided that it didn't fit in the story. Defense happens the same time as the book.)**_

_**Also, I screwed up, and the chapters got out of order. Sorry. This is what happens when your kitty-kitty goes on an evil rampage and destroys your outline: The chapters become mixed up. Kitty-kitty hates me. This is supposed to still be September. The Filius/Luce thing happens in October. See my problem? Darn you, kitty-kitty! So, altogether now, THANKS, kitty-kitty! (Not)**_

_**Anyway...carry on!**_

_**/**_

"Your brothers have started their own business testing products on innocent First Years," says Neville, slipping into the seat next to him. The class seems much smaller now, Ron thinks, looking around at all the empty chairs. There's an empty seat in every row, one for Dean and Hermione and Harry and all the Muggle-borns. Last night, Lavender and Parvati had sat together in the Common Room, holding each other and sobbing about how Mr. and Mrs. Patil were _already _considering pulling the twins out of school, despite having just started. Even this morning, Parvati had sat, looking rather put out, as she poked at her cereal, refusing to answer to anyone. Supposedly, a Sixth Year had had a break down after finding out that her Muggle mother had been murdered in her home. The girl hadn't returned yet. Madame Pomfrey is going to have one hell of a year, even without the perpetually hospitalised Harry around.

"So?" mutters Ron, tossing Neville the copy of Defensive Magical Theory, by Wilbert Slinkhard. Over the years, Harry and Ron have taken to grabbing whatever Neville left behind, giving it to a very frantic Longbottom in class.

"So you're a prefect. Shouldn't you make them stop? It could be dangerous. It's not like Lavender is going to do anything about it. She's very frantic about Parvati to care about her own prefect duties. (If Hermione were here, this wouldn't be a problem.)"

"No, thanks. Say, have you heard anything about Quidditch tryouts?"

"Not really. (Everybody seems to forget I don't really care about Quidditch.) Someone said we might not have 'em this year, because of all the kids not here. Did you see the Slytherin House? They're now officially the largest of all four. I think they're the only ones with a full team left."

"Of course they are. They're all self-absorbed Purebloods. What do you expect?" grumbles Ron, drawing a rather poor picture of what was supposed to be Snape drowning himself in a cauldron of pudding. "They don't have to worry about their friends or their siblings, because they're all going to grow up and be pathetic little Death Eaters! And meanwhile, we have no Keeper, no Seeker, and everyone is missing and people are panicking like _that's _going to bring everyone back and-" His quill tears a hole through the picture, straight across Snape's face, and he twists the quill back and forth, lengthening the tear until it takes up half the picture.

"Are you okay, Ron? I mean, I guess y-you aren't, but, c-can I help?" stammers Neville, giving him a nervous glance, watching him now shredding the picture into little bits and tap it with his wand, setting it on fire. "It's just, you look ready to kill someone and I really don't want to die just yet." Neville mumbles to himself, scooting over a few inches.

The rest of the class files in, taking seats and unpacking. The room seems somewhat lacking in the usual first-day-back conversations of holiday adventures, instead headcounts are performed, to list the missing. A tear-faced Parvati and Lavender take the seats closest to the door, in case one of them decides to run off to the girl's lavatory.

As the bell rings (and a flustered, late Seamus Finnegan rushes in) the dumpy witch in pink sidles into the room, smiling sweetly at them all as she heads to her desk. The class watches her with quiet, somewhat bored, fascination. Umbridge is, as yet, still an unknown quantity, and nobody knows how strict of a disciplinarian she is likely to be.

"Well, good afternoon!" she says cheerfully, when everyone (a sheepish Seamus included) has settled into their seats, still watching her. A few people mumbled 'good afternoon' in reply and she frowned slightly, tutting. "That won't do at all. I should like you to say 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge'. One more time, please. Good afternoon, class."

"There now," says Umbridge, the smile back on her face. "That wasn't too difficult, now was it? Wands away and quills out, then, please." Most of the class does this with a groan, stuffing wands back into bags with annoyed and bored expressions. Rarely has a class that begins with the phrase "Wands away" turned out to be exciting. Umbridge, apparently deaf to the complaints, turns to the blackboard and, still grinning, taps it with her wand.; words appear on the board at once:

**Defense Against the Dark Arts**

**A Return to Basic Principles**

"Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?" states Umbridge, turning back to the class, her hands clasped neatly in front of her. "The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed a Ministry approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your OWL year. You will be please to know, however, that these problems are being rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please."

Another tap to the board, and it changes to read:

**Course Aims:**

**Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.**

**Learning to recognise situations in which defensive magic can legally be used. **

**Placing the use of defensive magic in context for practical use. **

After a few minutes of everyone writing this down, Professor Umbridge tells them to read the first chapter, settling down at her desk with a smirk, watching them. "There will be no need to talk, thank you,"

Ron didn't even bother to read beyond the first sentence, just staring at a blank spot within the book, daydreaming. Everyone else seems wrapped up in finishing their naps as well. No one focuses on the book, and as Umbridge watches, Neville's head even drops onto his book. It's more boring than Professor Binn's supposed "History of Magic", which was in reality much closer to Professor Binn's "History of Why I'm So Boring".

"Mr. Longbottom! Would you mind explaining why you're sleeping instead of learning?" snaps Umbridge, getting up from her seat to glare at him.

"Um, sorry, professor," he mumbles, blushing. "It's just, this doesn't make any sense."

"Which part would that be, Mr. Longbottom?" asks Umbridge sweetly, leaning in.

"It sounds like we're not using magic at all. Just a bunch of reading and stuff. Aren't we supposed to be learning spells?"

"Wait, we're not using magic?" Ron blurts, looking around confused. The other students stop reading as well, watching the scene unfold.

"And why would we, Mr.?"

"Weasley."

"Yes, well, why would we use magic in my class, Mr. Weasley? Are you expecting to be attacked in my classroom? As I said, I only teach magic when in a practical state. This would mean when you are about to be attacked._ Are_ you about to be attacked, Mr. Weasley?"

"No, but-"

"Then we won't use magic! Unless you have finished your schooling and are a highly trained Ministry professional, I don't want to hear another word about it, do you understand?"

"But why not?" asks Seamus, looking puzzled. "Why can't we learn the actual stuff? Lupin and Moody taught us actual magic, not just the theory. Mind, Moody was a bit wonky, but we still learned, right?"

"I will remind you, Mr. Finnegan, that 'Professor Lupin' was a werewolf, a half-breed, and therefore unfit to truly be called a proper teacher."

"But we still learned stuff-"

"Your hand, Ms. Brown!" Umbridge looks angry and ready to pop, like a frog when you squeeze it too hard. "Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examinations, which, after all, is what school is all about. And your name is?" she asks, looking at Parvati, who has raised her hand.

"Parvati Patil and isn't there a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL? Aren't we supposed to show that we know all the counter-curses and stuff?"

"As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions," says Umbridge dismissively.

"Without ever practising them first? Are you telling us that the first time we'll have ever get to do the spells is during the exam?"

"I repeat, as long as you have studied hard enough-"

"But what about in real life?" asks Ron, blinking profusely. Was she implying that they weren't _ever _going to do magic in class? Umbridge looks at him, a twisted smile on her toady little face.

"This is school, not real life. There is nothing here that will hurt you and there is nothing _out there_, either. No matter what you've been told or what you might think, there. Is. Nothing. Out there. What on earth would want to attack you?"

"What about You-Know-Who?" asks Neville, giving Umbridge a fierce look, but when she swivels around to smirk at him, he slinks back into his seat like a beaten puppy. He tries to maintain the look on his face but it keeps slipping. Neville is not quite a brave hero, yet.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Longbottom. Now let me make something clear. You-Know-Who is not back. Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter were two separate, unconnected deaths that have nothing to do with any 'Death Eater risings'. The Death Eaters are not returning. Your Muggle-born friends have gone to a safe school for themselves. Do you understand me? Anyone who tells you different is _lying! _Anyone who tells you different is an enemy to the Ministry and must be treated with suspicion. Now, if anyone tries to tell you that You-Know-Who has returned, I would greatly appreciate, in fact _insist_, that you report it to me so they can be properly punished. This includes siblings and even your teachers. Alright?" she says and her voice goes back to being overly high-pitched and sweet. She smiles at all of them, meeting everyone's eyes as if to make sure they understand 100% what she said. That they understand that Harry Potter died a liar and Dumbledore continued on with the lie of a dead boy. How sick, how pathetic they both must be, to continue this fantasy of theirs.

When the class finally ends (the rest of it spent in stony silence as they all "finish" Chapter One) Neville and Ron head out, both looking very sleepy and very confused.

"Is she saying it's _Harry's _own fault he's dead?" Neville mumbles as they head back to the Common Room to dump their stuff for dinner. "And what's with no magic? I wish Hermione were here. She'd tell Umbridge how stupid that idea is and then we could _actually _learn something."

"Yeah, well, see how well that's working," Ron grumbles, nearly bumping into his sister Ginny, who's crying softly. "Hey Gin. Um, you okay?" he asks and he Neville pull her into a secluded hallway away from all the students speeding past. "What happened?"

"Umbridge t-told us t-today that we a-aren't using magic! And that we're s-supposed to r-report on each other if we mention You-Know-Who!" Ginny cries softly, looking distraught. "And Margaret s-said she'd report me if I talked about it, even though she's supposed to be my friend!"

"Well, why don't you tell Margaret she's an idiot?" says Neville, looking confused, while Ron begins regretting he even said hi to his sister. "Why shouldn't we talk about You-Know-Who and Dumbledore and the Muggle-borns? How else are we going to help Hermione? By _ignoring _her entire existence?"

Ron looks up, startled and blinks at Neville. "You're a genius."

"I am?"

"Yeah! That's what we should do! We should alert people to You-Know-Who's return and about Hermione and Dean and the others! That way, they'll _have _to talk about it!"

"So what should we do?" asks Ginny, looking between the Fifth Years. "Make signs and stuff?"

"Yeah! We'll be the Muggle-born Support Group, or something."

"Cool,"

_**/**_

_**Despite all irony of the following statement, I AM trying to stay as canonical as I can, despite running around in the world of AU. So, Quidditch and Umbitch and other stuff of that sort will be happening. Just, not quite the same, b/c everything has changed. HARRY'S GONE! He's been replaced with this little screw-head, Filius!**_

_**And also, according to my co-author (for this chapter only, probably) Trinny (short for, of all things, Trinith, which she says is a twisted version of Trinity crossed with Edith. Or just possibly her dad's hope that she ends up so traumatised, she becomes a hooker.), "No one is going to enjoy your weird, sadistic sense of humour, Lane. We're not all secret pyromaniacs at heart who really wish our teachers would go jump into the pits of hell." Huh. I have NO idea what she's talking about. (hides picture of old Language teacher that she was previously shredding.) **_


	13. Wars fought and Battles Lost

_**VERY IMPORTANT! IF THIS READS AS CHAPTER 13 AND NOT 12, PLEASE GO BACK TO 12! tHE ORDER OF THE STORY HAS CHANGED! GO BACK AND READ 12! (BUT ONLY IF YOU HAVE READ THE STORY BEFORE!)**_

_**A/N:YAY! I SURVIVED CAMP! (To get into the mood, let's all listen to Johnny Cash 'Ring of Fire' or 'In the Hall of the Mountain King' by Edvard Grieg. I recommend ANY version.) I also fixed the 1st chapter so it doesn't switch between past and present tense so much. Yay me! **_

_**I am late in my update (as usual) b/c I had to work on another project AND, of course, my kitty-kitty being a great "lover" of fanned fiction, decided to eat my hand-written draft that I brought back from Camp (painstakingly written during our afternoon naps, as if we were still in kindergarten) and then proceeded to sleep on my computer for several hours. Can't you tell that kitty-kitty and I lover each other VERY MUCH? Yay. Besides, the story was being VERY uncooperative. I despise you, O Writer's Block! Curse thee! **_

_**The page of 'A History of Magic' by Bathilda Bagshot IS, in fact, mine. I made it up, but I did not make up the book, author, or any other recognizable characters.**_

_**/**_

'A History of Magic' by Bathilda Bagshot, pg. 156, Chapter 12 "Muggles and Magic: The Power They Hold"

"_Many young witches and wizards wonder why it is that we hide from the Muggles? We are clearly stronger than they. We carry wands and can simply Apparate at the first sign of danger. We do things they may only dream of. Even today, we seem to pose no threat to these people who believe that wizardry and magic is nothing more than faery tales in story books. And yet, within our Ministry is an entire section dedicated to hiding us from the Muggles. Only a select few know of our existence (the Prime Minister for example, or parents of Muggleborns) and all are carefully guarded to ensure they hold their tongues on this great secret._

_But why all the secrecy? What could the Muggles possibly do to harm us? If we are so much greater and stronger, then shouldn't the Wizards take over? Of course not, as this would surely destroy both races, magical and non-magical. What do I mean by this? The answer is simple:_

_Recall the witch burnings and drowning of the 15th and 16th centuries and also before then. Many of our kind were taken to the stake or pushed into a lake to die. Of course, we found ways around that, through use of the Bubble-Head Charm or charming the fires to merely tickle and not burn. But at the same time, many of our Muggle counterparts were also accused of "evil deeds" and put to death. These innocent victims were also crucified and killed for no fault of their own. And even these victims were eager to accuse others of witchcraft; sometimes the guesses were wild and only hurt more innocents and other times were right on the mark, accusing a real witch or wizard. Small children, incapable of controlling their magic, were and are prone to violent, accidental outbursts and killed for their magic, thus harming our chance at large populations. _

_And even in war time, when the wizards slipped out and did "miraculous" feats in front of Muggles, we were persecuted. Remember the wizards who were sent away for "working with the Devil" or "helping the enemy" through witchcraft? These people were killed for wrong accusations, often unable to defend themselves because their wands were taken away and snapped in half. Therefore, to protect us as well as them, the Ministry decided that we should hide, to further protect all of mankind, whether magic or not. _

_Today, we are mocked by Muggle impersonators, called "magicians"-Muggles with no powers and resorting to mere clever tricks, often performing at children's birthday parties. If a real wizard were to step out and perform, he would be thought a fraud and heckled by neighbours and relatives, at best. At worst, he would be locked away for ever, to be declared mentally unfit by Muggles and his wand stripped by the Ministry, and he would become useless to society._

_No, in reality, the reasons for such great protection from the Muggles is to keep the Muggles from the truth-for if they were to know of our existence on a wide scale, we would go back to the Dark Ages where friend betrayed friend and thousands of innocents died daily..." _

"So, you see what I was saying? The Muggles are clearly a danger to society and must be stamped out. Not only for _our _sake, but for _theirs _as well. If we allow them to live freely, or live at all in some cases, they will kill themselves and others. They must be stopped, must be controlled, or they will destroy us all." explains Amita, sitting in front of Filius in the makeshift classroom that usually serves as his bedroom. This was what most of her lessons were about, how Muggles were animals, stupid and filthy, and how they drive wizards into hiding by being vicious toward them and themselves, and how the natural order was being changed, put back to the way it once was. Filius can see the love in her eyes as she talks, slandering the Muggles and Muggle-borns. Except it wasn't slander. It was the truth, undeniable. The Muggles thought they were so good? Wait until Filius' father and the others arrived and showed them who was _truly _in charge. Let them see their place _then. _

It's just the two of them, sitting one of a bed and another at a desk, scouring all the different books that discuss magic and Muggles. Most of them mention the wizards as evil things that deserve to be destroyed. His teachers, Narcissa and Amita, take turns teaching him about the_ true_ evil of the world-Muggles and those who thought that Muggles were of decent stock.

Narcissa is the nicer woman, the softer woman, but at the same time, colder. She leans away from Filius when he moves to touch her. She shudders, avoiding his eyes. Amita is stricter, more pushy, but less afraid to grab at him, to tell him what to do. She was the stranger of the two, for sure, certainly more capable of scaring Filius into doing as she said.

But still, he enjoys the lessons, following raptly as they flipped through pages of literature, pages that critised and heckled wizards. Filius was beginning to see why his father wants the Muggles and Muggle-borns to be stopped from hurting themselves and others. He was beginning to see the truth, once more. He hates that he lost his memory, that he spent even a short time in the hands' of his father's enemies, because sometimes he gets flashes, especially at night, of things that do not add up to what he is taught. Lies, Amita says, that the Other Side has put into his mind to confuse him. Clearly, Wizards are good and Muggles are bad. Anyone who says differently was wrong, an enemy to be destroyed.

_**/**_

The Order meeting starts as it usually does, with Dumbledore thanking them all for being here and Severus shooting sideways smirks at Sirius. The two were not any closer to being friends than Remus was to admitting that he had..._feelings _for a certain Metamorphagus. Remus, also as usual, rolls his eyes and pretends that his best mate is not acting like a jealous student, sulking and pouting. Sometimes, things could get ridiculous.

The group seems smaller, more forlorn. Diggle's seat is empty as is Minerva's and Filius', along with Olympe's. They are all at their schools and must stay there, to protect the children. Except for Dedalus, who is still missing. Most of the Order long ago gave him up for dead. The others that should have been here, James and Lily and Marlene and Susan Bones-they were all _definitely _dead, _definitely _gone and not coming back. Always, it seemed, the Death Eaters were doubled, tripled, _quadrupled _in their numbers. What chance did they have?

Severus stands up, shaking everyone from their thoughts as they all turn to look at him.

"I believe that the Dark Lord wishes to move Harry Potter to Malfoy Manor and soon. Now that I am aware of his presence, he will want the boy in a more protected situation. I have heard Lucius Malfoy discussing it already with his wife. I believe he will be moved within a month, which would mean we would have to act fast. It would be almost impossible to break into the Manor, even with a Death Eater and the full support of the Ministry on your side. And of course, you'll only be having one of those things," he says, looking around at them all. Sirius could almost feel the snarkiness rolling off his sentence, the feeling of being able to do something they couldn't. Sirius wants to punch the ex-Slytherin.

"And what do we do about that? You just said we're not going to get in without help. How are we going to get into his house let alone _find_ Potter?" growls Moody, his electric blue eye swerving in its socket, rolling like a marble, looking everywhere and at everyone.

"We'll have to find a way in. Kingsley, maybe you can get another paper from your boss that gives you permission?" asks Remus, beginning to look eager. They all were, faced with the possibility of rescuing Harry. "Or Severus, perhaps, mention a friendly visit and look for Harry?"

"I can try," says the Auror, smiling. "But what would we do then? We can't exactly just wander around his house yelling for Harry. Besides, Severus said that the boy didn't even recognise _him._"

Severus, however scowls and shakes his head at Remus. "It will not work if I come. He _knows _I know about Harry. Besides, Lucius has never, ah, been _up to_ friendly visits from me."

"Who would want to?" Sirius grumbles to himself. Remus shoots him a look, as if to tell him to hush, but Sirius ignores him, looking at Dumbledore.

"I want to come," he says, staring at the man. Dumbledore frowns and shakes his head, opening his mouth to start a lecture. "No," Sirius interrupts. "I want to help find my godson. I want to rescue him. I can help. I escaped Azkaban, I can get Harry out."

"Sirius-" Remus begins, leaning over and putting an arm on Sirius. Sirius shakes it off and glares at Dumbledore.

"No! Why can't I ever do anything? What's the point if you're only ever going to use me as a place to have meetings? I'm _in _the Order, Dumbledore, let me _do _something, for Merlin's sake! Stop cutting me out of everything, stop telling me it's dangerous. This will be dangerous for all of you, anyway. Why does it matter?"

"Sirius, no. You would risk it. Lucius could recognise you and alert the Ministry. It would compromise the entire mission," says Dumbledore quietly.

Sirius was pissed. More than pissed, actually, closer to _furious. _Again, Dumbledore was trying to stop him from rescuing his own godson. Across the table, Snape smirks at Sirius, making his blood boil. Sirius has always wanted to punch the Death Eater, but every time is forced to sits on his hands. His face drains of colour as he looks around for someone to team up with. Someone on _his _side. No one will meet his eyes, not even Remus, who twitches and glances at the table. They're all _embarrassed _to look at him, to acknowledge they're not on his side, but Dumbledore's, as usual.

"No one's going to bother arguing for me? No one? This is my _damn _godson we're talking about! Why shouldn't I help?"

"Because it's dangerous," murmurs Hestia quietly, looking at him, tears in her eyes. "Something could happen to you, just like Dedalus. That can't happen again. The Order is already so small and we can't afford to lose anyone. Harry...you would devastate him. This is too dangerous."

"Hasn't anyone considered that maybe I'm _used _to danger?"

_**/**_

In the end, things had escalated into a huge fight, as usual. _Snivellus _jabbing at Sirius, having little goes right there, knowing Sirius couldn't kill him. Until finally, Sirius just jumped at him, Molly screaming and Kingsley saying in that deep voice to "calm down,". But why should he calm down? Harry was missing and no one would let Sirius do a _damn _thing about it! Remus had had to drag Sirius out of the room, and with the full moon having just ended three days ago, Remus was still working off an adrenaline rush.

Sirius wasn't sure who was going to Malfoy Manor or what the plan was, but he knew it soon. Sirius would be ready. He was going to save his godson and prove them all wrong. He knew what he was doing. He can take care of himself. They all act like he was going to snap at any moment, rush at them. They act like he was still a convicted murder, fresh from Azkaban. Even Remus didn't seem to trust him, not after the stint with the all the beer and the long nights. Remus, it would appear, didn't want to forgive and forget any time soon.

Once again, they act like he was incompetent, incapable of doing the simplest of things. No one would let him do anything and he has to resort to yelling, which only seems to further the point that he can't handle it. And Severus, who always just sits there, smirking and judging. The tables have turns since Hogwarts. Now _Severus _was the one jabbing at Sirius, dropping snide comments and being an overall prick.

So Sirius has to make his own plans, figure out how to sneak into Malfoy Manor and rescue Harry himself. It was helpful that he knows where Harry's cloak is. Less helpful that it's with Remus. But he was good at sneaking around. And Harry had to recognise him when Sirius got there. He just had to, because this was _Harry _and Harry, no matter what, just had to recognise him. And Harry would, no doubt.

Right?

_**/**_

Hestia shudders, looking up at the marble building in front of her. She had been here a month ago for slightly different reasons. But still, the fanciness of the place continued to alarm her, all white and pristine. She wonders, absent-mindedly, how clean it would stay if it were _her _living here and not the Malfoys. If she had enough money to own this entire place instead of the dingy little flat she rents right now.

"Focus, Hes," says Tonks, who stands next to her. Kingsley, as solemn as ever, steps up to the gate. It is just them, this small band. Hestia, Tonks, Kingsley, Remus and Moody. Severus hides somewhere behind them, skulking. Severus, who she still struggles with _not _calling Snape, had been her professor just a few years ago. Minerva and a few others within the Order as well. Disturbing. Sirius had lost the fight with Dumbledore and had stayed home, glaring at them all and especially Remus, as they prepared to leave.

"Are you honestly just not going to do anything?" he had asked, the question directed at Remus, who flinched and mumbled and pulled on gloves, avoiding Sirius. "After everything? We're friends, Remus, and you can't do a thing? He's James' son,"

"I know who's son he is, Sirius. And I know who's godson he is as well," Remus had snapped. Sirius growled, low and guttural.

Kingsley turns to look at them now, beckoning them to come inside the gate, Hestia wonders what Sirius had meant by "_After everything_". She knows the men had been friends for years, but doesn't know either very well.

_Is it possible they dated at one point? _She thinks to herself as she follows Tonks, who still stumbles and trips over the flat ground. Shaking her head, she puts the distractions away, focusing on Lucius Malfoy, who stands at the front door. She recalls the last time she had been here, just over a month ago, and curses the fact that they hadn't gotten to check his entire house, to look for places to hide a fifteen year old boy.

"Wow," Tonks gasps, nearly tripping over a particularly angry peacock, who snaps at her leg. "They really _do _have a big house. What do they do with the entire place?"

"Torture young children," growls Moody, clumping by, his wooden leg making a small _thump _with every step. Mad-Eye Moody was an ex-Auror, but slightly crazy and paranoid, his head filled with conspiracies against him. Moody slightly scares Hestia.

Moody knocks on the door, mumbling under his breath. Tonks shoots Hestia a look that reads, _"Don't you just love this?"_. Tonks has not yet met the Malfoys.

This time, a House Elf is the one who opens the door, a small pink creature with large ears, who cowers up at them. Hestia can not tell if she is looking at a male or a female, only that this Elf looks forlorn, its fingers bandaged. She recalls that the Malfoys have already lost one House Elf, almost three years ago.

The House Elf flinches as Moody steps in front of it without having been invited and squeaks nervously, following them inside.

"Master has not invited you in yet. Master has not said the Ministry peoples are coming in. Oh, oh. What will Master say to Benke when he finds out? Benke will be punished. Oh, please sir, please wait. Master has not let you in yet."

Moody doesn't even glance down at the terrified House Elf, simply marching past it to, deeper into the house, towards the door that Kingsley has pointed out as Malfoy's office. Hestia and Tonks follow after, slightly surprised at the man's tenacity. Moody throws open the office door, making the person inside jump.

"What is the meaning of this?" asks a very shocked Lucius Malfoy, glaring between them and his House Elf. "Benke, why did you let them in?"

"Benke is sorry, Master. Benke is not meaning to. They is coming in on their own and going to Master's office. Benke is not meaning to disobey her master," whimpers the House Elf, but Malfoy merely waves her away with orders to just punish herself as she sees fit. Benke scurries off, leaving the five of them with Malfoy, who suddenly smiles, stepping aside to let them in.  
>"I recall your face from earlier, Mr. Kingsley," he says, sweeping to his seat, settling down to look at them. Tonks nearly upsets a vase as she hurries to her seat next to Hestia, earning an annoyed look from Malfoy. "What brings you here, again?" Hestia can hear the impatience in his voice, the man clearly showing that he thought them not worth his time.<p>

"We want to check your house again, Malfoy. We are under the suspicion that you're hiding something here that doesn't belong." growls Moody from his spot on the wall. The grizzled old man refuses to sit down, standing taller than even Malfoy in his high-backed chair.

"Like something Dark?" laughs Malfoy, shaking his blonde head. "I assure you, sir, I hold no Dark artifacts within my home. You will find nothing of _that _sort here. I wouldn't allow it."

"No, not Dark artifacts. Something worse. We believe you are holding someone prisoner here, within your home."

Malfoy laughs again, shock flitting across his face. He stands up, gesturing to the door. Moody nods and follows him, and the others get up as well, following him down to his basements. They stop at a locked door, leading to large, empty dungeons. Malfoy unlocks it and allows them to wander about, looking. There is no one here, not a single sign that anyone has _ever _been here.

"As you can clearly see, I hide no one here. I have done nothing wrong, you note that? I have donated very generously to the Ministry, donated to the school they are building in _my _name. But, for some reason, this does not appear to earn me any respect. I am treated like a criminal, searched and watched. I have done no thing, there is no charge against me. Please, leave!"

As they turn to exit, there is a crash behind Malfoy and they all turn to see dark shadows, something scurrying about mere feet from where Malfoy stands. The blonde walks over to the spot, waving around until he smacks something that appears to be solid and yet..._completely invisible. _The thing groans in an almost familiar voice and Hestia hears Remus gasp behind him.

"_That idiot!_" Remus whispers loudly but it is too late. Malfoy reaches forward and whips a cloak off an annoyed but very sheepish Sirius Black.

"Criminal!" Malfoy yells, backing away, dropping the cloak. "Sirius Black-in my own home! What is this trickery? What is this? You, you murderer, in my home! The Ministry will be very pleased to find that I have Sirius Black, believe me. Oh yes, they will reward me greatly." He rushes off, upstairs.

"Sirius, you moron!" yells Remus, grabbing his wrist and they all took off, running upstairs and out the front door. Malfoy followed behind, smirking.

"I wouldn't bother trying. I've already alerted the Ministry, they're coming now. They'll very pleased to have not just Sirius Black but the very people who have helped hid him over the past year. You can't get out now," he laughs. "I'm charmed it myself,"

But the gate swings open anyway, Malfoy gasping behind them. Severus stands still hidden in the bushes, but he turns, just close enough to see Malfoy as he murmurs "_Oblivious_" before Apparating to their safe spot, muttering to himself as he disappears from view of the Malfoy Manor.

"You forget, Lucius, that the gate is charmed so that Death Eaters within the inner circle can get in," he smirks, fading away from sight.

Hestia collapses to the ground, her elbow and ankle snapping as she falls, gasping out loud. In front of her, Remus is already standing, confronting Sirius.

"What the _hell_! What were you thinking, Sirius? You could have been arrested just then! You could have died! Why can't you ever think, Padfoot? Why is it always _action _with you? You almost got us all a cell in Azkaban, if not death itself. If Severus hadn't been thinking, we'd all be in the hands of the Ministry! Dammit, Sirius, think for once!" he screams, shoving at Sirius, who pushes back, screaming incomprehensible obscenities.

"I agree with Lupin," says Severus. "It _is _all your fault, Black,"

"That's not what I said, Severus!" yells Remus.

Sirius shakes his head, glaring around at them all. "Fine! Fine! I understand. No one wants me here anyway, I understand. I'll leave! I'll find Harry and the others by myself! I don't need you or the Order or anyone else! Especially not you, Remus! Or _Snivellus!_" He Apparates, the resounding _crack!_ making

Hestia clutch at her head.

Remus' eyes widen and he sinks to the ground, shaking his head. "I didn't mean it like _that_," he mutters to himself. Tonks goes over to comfort him, giving him a hug. Kingsley comes over to Hestia, who still wears a shocked look.

"Here, let me help," he says, pointing his wand at her ankle and then her elbow. They straighten and she smiles, whispering _Thank You_ because she doesn't want to speak any louder. Remus looks ready to cry or already is crying, she can't tell.

"Sirius," Kingsley murmurs to her. "likes Remus. _Likes_ Remus." He says it as casually as if mentioning that Sirius had decided _not _to go to the park today. "But Remus never let him tell anyone. Because Remus doesn't like Sirius, not like that. And now, everything has gone to hell. Dumbledore isn't going to like this."

_**/**_

She heads upstairs to the flat she shares with Nymphadora, who was strict in her rule of only being called Tonks. The two young women, only a few years apart, had drifted together for various reasons, mostly being among the youngest, both being female, and both with no home of their own. Hestia didn't mind having Tonks as a flat mate, regardless of how clumsy the woman was. She was funny and smart and understood. Like Diggle. Diggle.

Diggle was _still _missing. She had sat for hours in her room after finding out, after Remus and Kingsley had come back _without him_, sitting on her bed wishing she could die. No one knows about them, no one guesses. Not even Tonks is aware, wrapped in in finding Harry and the Muggle-borns and fussing about Remus. They're all so wrapped up in everything else, every last one of them. And Dedalus wanted, _wants, _to take things slow. Not rush into something because of the war that was coming. But now, he has disappeared and she wonders if rushing would have been better. Would have been greater and easier. And now she might never find out.

"Are you okay?" asks Tonks, coming from the kitchen, a dust pan full of broken glass floating behind her.

"Yes. No. I dunno."

"Do you miss Diggle?"

"How'd you know about him?" askes Hestia, shocked. She thought they had hid that so well.

"I'm your room mate, Hes. I know _everything _about you." Tonks laughs, settingling onto the couch next to her. "Like how you guys sneak around when I'm not here. I found one of his shoes," she says, shrugging. "Don't worry, we'll find him,"

"That's not all I'm worried about. I've also done something _really _awful. But I can't tell you. I'm sorry," Hestia mumbles, turning away to stare at the wall. Tonks gives her a questioning look but shrugs again and nods. "Part of being a flat mate, I suppose," she mutters. "Hey, do you think it's weird that he's seven years older than you?"

"Remus is thirteen years older," laughs Hestia and Tonks throws a pillow at her.

Hestia shakes her head, wondering how it was that everything was so tangled up now. She likes Diggle and Diggle likes her, but he is missing. Sirius is gay and likes Remus, but Remus doesn't like guys. Tonks likes Remus but isn't sure if Remus likes her. And now, their group was getting even smaller and they couldn't go back to Malfoy Manor without getting in trouble.

How is it that the _first _Order of the Phoenix survived as long as it had?

_**/**_

_**Should I really be wasting so much time on research? Is it making my story ANY better? I have NO idea! But, I enjoy it, so...er...I have no excuse why I wasted a large portion of my time merely researching minor characters. Or why I love so dearly to change the history of the characters. I feel like I am morphing them into my own little creations (insert evil laugh)**_

_**On the wiki page for Hestia Jones, she is described as young. Dedalus Diggle's picture also makes him look fairly young. His page also says (fl. **__**1964 – 1997) which puts him at 31 in 1995. I'm assuming Hestia is roughly Tonks' age, possibly 24. (Then, I looked back at another chapter about her and read that I already had listed her as 24, so there ya go!) Besides, I think they'd make a cute couple. (Diggle/Hestia, not Tonks/Hestia) Therefore, insert random Diggle/Hestia scene! (Aren't I lovely?) **_

_**I assume that at this point, no one even reads these things, so I mention it here. I love your reviews, guys! Also, I notice that (1 no one has come up with any ideas for what happened to Ettie and (2 I seem to have no conspiracy theorists out there! WHY? WE LOVES YOU! **_

_**If you have any good idea, tell me. It could conceivably end up in latter parts of the story. (I've only written the outline up to Chapter 22!)**_

_**It has officially been decided! Canonical pairings (with few exceptions) shall rain upon this story! (Sorry Dramione or Drarry ,or whatever you support, fans. Harry will end up with Ginny. Somehow. Huh. Regardless, Ron and Hermione rule over all! HeRmiONe for the win!) **_


	14. Worthless

_**A/N: This chapter might get a little violent. Well, ok, there's abuse. So, maybe skip to Chapter 15, when that comes up b/c chapter 14 will be no man's friend! Neither is this, really. I am so cruel to them all!**_

_**My kitty-kitty continues on her eveeeeeeeel rampage, continuing to sleep on my computer. Thanks, Simba. **_

_**/**_

She was shoved into a small room, already over-flowing with a dozen other bodies. They were all alive, all dirty and hungry. Some were much younger, some older. A small girl cries every night and wipes her tears with dirty hands, which only stings. There is no room to pee, and the smell of urine clings to them all. The door was slammed shut minutes after they tossed her in and there are no windows. She has no way of counting the minutes, the hours, the days. She only knows that she is scared and tired.

They come by every now and then, laughing and taunting, throwing scraps of food. Almost stale or stale bread, sometimes chunks of meat, which land in their own filth and dirt. But everyone is hungry, everyone has resorted to their animal instincts. They fight and blood spills over onto the food but it is eaten anyway, not a bit wasted.

At night, the littler ones cry for their parents, for siblings, for anyone. The oldest is a man, barely twenty-five, he claims. He, too, cries, by the end of the third feeding. This is how time is now based, by when they are fed or watered. Like animals in a zoo, they are gawked at by the laughing men or snickering women. No one offers to help, not anyone from the outside. But inside, it is almost no better. There is barely room to sit down but they can not stand or they would surely faint. Boys push others, girl grab at hair. There are twins girls who sit at opposite ends, so despising of each other.

She, too, cries for her mother and father, for her grandmother, and for her friends. Slowly, she begins to forget their names and must say them to herself, lest the lose them forever. School, Hogwarts, magic, it all becomes very distant memories. She begins to wonder if she had ever _truly _gone to a school, ever _truly _been a witch. Or perhaps she had always spent her life in this room with a dozen others, squished and afraid.

They had taken her wand away the second they got their hands on her. Ripped it from her fingers so fast, there were red marks but she refused to show that it hurt. One of them, a bulky man barely older than she, slapped her across the face, yelled curses and called her nasty things. She would not respond, would not let them see her fear. He only snarled and slapped her again, calling her a whore. Eventually, he tired of slapping her and his hands dropped lower, hovering over her blouse. Someone else snickered, says to not even bother.

"Mudblood scum like 'er, probably don't got no tits," he laughed and the man near her also smiled, but reached closer anyway. She was braver then, stronger, and she bit his hand. He waved it around, howling as he bled. She smiled, pleased with herself, until a woman grabbed her by her hair and dragged her into a small room that looked like a hospital. She was dropped onto a hard, metal bed and her jeans were stripped off, casually tossed into a waste bin. Then her shirt, though this time she was ready and fought back. Each time she struggled, she was slapped or hit or kicked. Pretty soon, her stomach was a mass of bruises, scratches. But still she held in the tears as this hard-faced woman took _everything _off. The socks, the underwear. Even her bra was tossed off and she watched it drop to the floor, her face blushing.

"Oh grow up, you little Mudblood. No one cares about your bosom," snarled the woman, grabbing a pair of scissors, and coming towards her, smirking. "Not as if you have one to begin with. Suspect your filthy, Muggle mother doesn't have anything either." She stood behind her, and she felt her frizzy brown hair floating away, falling away in chunks as the scissors _snip, snip, snip_. For the first time, she was sorrowful for her hair, as it dropped to the floor in great swarms. She could not see it, but it was if she could still _feel _the hair, like it was still a part of her, in her mind seeing it fly everywhere and clinging to everything. She imagined it latching onto the woman until she literally choked on the hair and then, _then _she would break free and run away.

As her hair was stolen, the woman talked about how disgusting she was, how much she despised Mudbloods. She wanted to yell her name, to tell the woman she _wasn't _a Mudblood, but Hermione Jean Granger! She was the son of dentists, the Drs. Granger. But the woman only continued to snip away and Hermione did not speak. She felt as if she could not, as if she had never spoke a word in her life. And then, the scissors got too close to her neck, scraping across the back and Hermione shrieked, jerking up. The blunt side of the scissors hit her across the ear and the woman snarled to "behave yourself, you filthy animal!". Hermione stopped, frightened.

She whimpered, trying to close her eyes, but the woman only laughed, forcing them back up by pressing her nails deep into Hermione's back. She could feel the holes left behind, feel the blood trickling down her back. Each passing second, it became harder not to cry, until she just couldn't hold it. The woman reveled in Hermione's tears, actually pausing to dip her finger in the tears that pooled on Hermione's cheeks, still laughing. She hummed to herself as she finished the last bits of hair, this time with a razor that buzzed loudly.

"You know, I could do this all with magic in a few seconds, but it wouldn't be as fun," said the woman, forcing Hermione to sit up on the bed, which was drying with her browned blood. "Not as entertaining to just poof it off. No, when you slowly take it all away, _that's _the fun of it all." the woman walks away, into a closet but returns too quickly for Hermione to even look around. She carries a shapeless black dress, which was clearly too big and has a lacy collar around the neck and sleeve ends. Hermione glared at it and the woman, daring her to force it on.

The woman did it more than willingly, yanking Hermione to her feet and nearly tossing her into the dress, which covered her entire body, down past her feet. At least it is warm, compared to the cold walls, which are metallic in nature, glinting evilly back at her. But soon, the woman returned with bigger scissors, which she uses to shear off the dress until it is just below Hermione's knees. Still, the dress was too big in the waist, bunching and yet falling away from her stomach. The upper part is too small, pinching at her breasts and making each breath a little shallow.

"Uncomfortable?" laughed the woman, handing Hermione a mirror. She looked down to see her bald head, missing even her eyebrows. She looks like an alien, her rounded head almost glistening with nervous sweat. Hermione wanted to break down, to cry, as she stared at this sickening reflection, but the woman snatches the mirror away and pulled Hermione to the door.

"Out. Now. Leave my presence, Muggle scum," she ordered, and Hermione stumbled out to where the men were waiting. They both laugh and mock her, each taking an arm, making human handcuffs, as they lead her down a stone path. They passed building after building, all windowless and small. She could hear screams and shrieks from inside, some of young children, some older. Each little building had a menacing looking man, holding a wand, standing in front. Eventually, they stopped in front of an identical door, which the guard unlocked. She was shoved inside and the door slammed behind her.

It had been so bright outside and so dark in here, she was essentially blind for nearly ten minutes. Eventually, she realised it was just too dark to see and she called out.

A few voices answered, but most stayed quiet, hiding in the corners and she only knew they existed when she bumped into them. They pushed at her, told her to back off. One boy, a mere year older than her, snarled that he would claw out her eyes if she ever touched him again.

"That goes for all of you," he growled, and she could feel figures, bodies, slinking away. Eventually, someone informed her that she was in a camp full of Muggles and Mudbloods and blood traitors. Everyone here was an enemy of _You-Know-Who_, under the false idea that they were going to a "wonderful" school, being "taken care of" and given the "best schooling" possible. She nodded, though no one could see her and was given a spot to sit down in.

"Sleep here, rest here, die here," said one bitter voice, who identified herself as "Danny". She couldn't tell if Danny was male or female. "Don't worry, sweetheart," said Danny, laughing mockingly. "We're all the same here, don't matter what your name is or your story. It's all the same, same, same. And it all ends with them carting your dead body to a hole in the ground. Don't expect anyone to come get you, sweetheart,"

"My name is Hermione," she said. "Don't call me sweetheart. And my friends _will _come, don't worry." But Danny and the others only laughed, calling her a silly girl. Eventually, time blurred and she lost all sense. Nightmares were a common plague, screams haunting, drifting everywhere. But the close quarters meant diseases, too, spread quickly. The floor, which was really just dirt, was soaked with urine and blood and feces. No one complained though, just squatted in their own waste and didn't speak. Occasionally, someone would be dragged out, screaming and sobbing, only coming back hours later, shaking. They did not speak of what happened when this happened. They did not speak of anything.

Sometimes, they were all ordered out into the bright sun or the glistening moon and made to work. Laborous jobs, sewing clothes or tending gardens. Building more units or following after various guards, doing their bidding. Noncooperation led to beating, public whippings. Often, someone would just give out, their body dropping to the ground in the middle of work. They were dragged away, never to be seen again. Everyone left was simply ordered back to work, and there was always more to make up for those who had died.

One time, a little girl who stayed in the same unit as Hermione, began bleeding as she sewed, her fingers torn from the strings and needles. She was just eleven, a little child named Eva. She cried and tried to hide her bloody fingers, but it only got worse, blood covering the threads and she sobbed even harder. Hermione moved to comfort Eva, accidentally alerting the attention of a guard, who she had learned were all low ranking Death Eaters. It was one of the crueler guards, one they all called Schmell, because people would clog their noses as he walked by, their voices doubling over until everything, even your own name, sounded funny.

"What seems to be the problem?" he snarled, looking down at them, Eva crying over the shirt she was mending, Hermione ripping at her dress to make bandages. "Why have you stopped?"

"Sorry, sir," murmured Eva, wrenching her hands away from Hermione and bending back over her work.

"She's bleeding. Why won't you help?" asked Hermione, feeling dirty and disgusted. No one seemed eager to help each other, not even the other Muggle-borns. They all avoided each other, eyes shifty and dark. "Please, it hurts her too much," Eva tried to shush Hermione, but Schmell only laughed and reached for Eva's arm, tugging her away from the mending.

"Help the little Mudblood? Very well, if you insist," he said, smirking and dragged Eva away. Hermione felt a little better, returning to her own work. However, when everything was done and they were lined up to march back to the units, she saw the public whipping post, the ground around it pooling with blood. Eva lay on the ground near it, unconscious.

"You see what happens, you little idiot? See what happens when you get involved? You have killed a little girl, you horrible child. You have killed her," snapped Danny. The others avoided Hermione even more, although Eva _did _come back, her back raw and open. No one would glance at her, not within the unit and certainly not outside of it.

Everyday, someone new died. There were more holes dug, until the prisoners themselves were dragged out to dig the graves. But the camp overflowed, more and more Muggle-borns and Muggles being brought in, crammed into the small spaces. Many died within a week, from lack of food or from the bugs that seemed to be everywhere. Everyday, it was a miracle to wake up, to feel the cramps in your legs, the stiffness in your back. And it was a miracle to fall asleep, your body bruised and battered almost _too far_, but never quiet enough.

She began to forget her father's name, her mother's name, her grandmother's name. Even her own name and age fluttered away from her, scurrying to edges of her mind until she stopped bothering to remember. She couldn't recall why she was here, except that she was a "Mudblood", apparently unworthy of living. She briefly remembered that she had two friends, boys, but she never saw them at the camp and soon believed that the boys had never existed to begin with. She had always been here, always been worthless. Everyday, she wanted to die, to just stop, but then a name or a face would appear in front of her eyes and she would wonder _Do I know them? Do they know me? _and she existed for another day, suffering and praying that one of the faces, one of the names from her dreams, would come and rescue her.

Most of all, she wished they would remind her of who she was. Because she had forgotten. She had forgotten _everything. _Except that she was worthless. It was much too easy to remember you were worthless if it always was whispered in your ears, swam through your dreams.

_Worthless. _

_**/**_

_**I am way over-inspired by Nazi Germany. Ah, well. It scared me to write this, so I hope you are at least a little frightened yourself. I am also aware it is in past tense, while the rest of the story is in present. This is HIGHLY intentional. **_


	15. Innocence Stolen

_**IF THIS SAYS CHAPTER 15, GO BACK TO CHAPTER 12! THE ORDER WAS MIXED UP! THE NEW CHAPTER 12 IS THE REAL ONE! (this only applies if you have read this story before. Thank you.)**_

_**A/N: Hey! Miss me? Sorry I was gone without telling you guys. I went on a church reserve thing and they wouldn't let me bring my lap top. Very sad stuff. Besides, I kind of kept wanting to not write this. You have no idea how much I wanted to NOT write this. But, it's the story. I write it, but I am not in charge of it. The story makes itself. I just put it into words. (I didn't understand that, either.)**_

_**Like the last chapter, this is NOT going to be a nice chapter. (I do not agree with any types of abuse that exist, especially this.) So, maybe just don't read it. Take a break and wait for chapter 15. Or ignore me, read it, and then yell at me. Whichever one. MWPP-Marauders-Forever, this is for you! (Just, don't kill me!) **_

_**/**_

His wife bores him. She was pretty, sure, but it had been twenty years that they have been married and he is bored. Eventually, a pretty face fades and what do you have left? Nothing, not here. She was never truly in love with him, nor he her. If there was or had ever been a lover in the corners, he would not blame her for it. How could he? If Lucius were given the chance, he would jump at the opportunity for some _real _love. They had been married almost half his life. Ever since 1975. Love, sex, was a rare thing, only pulled out of the closet merely because he was a _Malfoy _and there had to be an heir.

He has never admitted it, but he can tell she knows. He does not love her. She does not love him. That is simply how it is. Yes, she cared greatly for Draco, for her family. She would give up her life for them, even Lucius. He would do the same for her. But that was not love. When he imagines paradise, it is not her in his arms. They respected each other, as colleagues did. She and her sister, Bellatrix, were the only two women he could respect. And one of them one is in prison.

Malfoys did not divorce. They never had and never will. This was simply the way things were and he had long since gotten used to it. Taught his son to think and dream and believe the way he does. And yet his mother, who was most certainly _not _a Malfoy in anything more than name, pours her own dreams into her son. Into _their _son, because he belongs to both of them, for now. And so, Draco stands between them, between these two families, these two people who want him to be different. But Lucius is the father, the master of the home. Draco must and will follow after him. He's a _Malfoy_.

Once upon a time, he, Lucius, was allowed to dream about who he wanted to be. Who he wanted to be _with._ But he had been a child then, and have lived a child's life. Ever since he was thirteen years old, he had been told how to live, who he was to marry. For almost twenty-eight years, he had been proposed to this woman that he was told to love. But he could never admit the truth, about who he loved. For his parent's sake, for his sake, for _Narcissa's _sake he must pretend. He must pretend that she and people like her are the ones for him.

And this, this is what he repeated to himself as he Apparates (thankfully in one piece) to his Master's home, the place they may not name. No one is aware of the connection that the Dark Lord has to this house, except perhaps Dumbledore and he could only guess at the truth. Therefore, they did everything here, because nowhere else was safe, apparently not even Lucius' own house. Someone had broken in while Lucius was out, though nothing appeared to be missing. Lucius wakes with up headaches, thoughts throbbing in the back of his head, but he long ago learned to dismiss such nonsense.

He stumbles inside, wishing he could control the pounding in his head right now. No one else is here, no one except for Alecto Carrow, who dozes on a couch in the sitting room. Even the Dark Lord is gone, scheming or killing or simply doing dark, evil things that would give most people nightmares. It certainly gives Lucius nightmares to wonder at what his Master does in his free time.

Alecto shudders in her sleep, moaning about "filthy Muggles," and Lucius recalls that she was in charge of the so-called "school" where all the Muggle-borns and other enemies of the Death Eaters are being sent. The same school named after _him_, of all people, something he had laughed about to Narcissa, over wine. He chuckles now, whispering over and over, "Lucius Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy. They named a school after me. Lucius." He has a strange name, it occurs to him. _Lucius. _What had his parents been thinking?

He walks past her, into the hallway, ignoring the woman. You did not become a Death Eater by caring for others, even your own fellows and companions. Even your own children came second to the Dark Lord and his triumph. Instead, he stomps through the hallway, trying to remember where the boy was, Filius. Trying to stop the pounding in his head from one too many Firewhiskies. Trying to remind himself that this was _wrong_. Wrong. But the alcohol in his body makes him clumsy and excited, energy zapping through his body. For a second, he thought he sees fire licking at his hands and punches at a wall to get it off.

The fire disappears and he stops, confused. "Huh," he mumbles, glad no one was around to see acting so undignified. He is a _Malfoy_, after all. They had to uphold a reputation, no matter what he was planning on doing. No matter how drunk he feels right now, no one could ever know a Malfoy disgraced.

He eventually finds the bedroom that Filius is staying in, darkened and quiet. A lump, the boy, is curled under a mountain of blankets, but Lucius can still see twitches every few seconds, the blankets shifting along with him. Not for the first time, he wonders what the boy dreams about. What it would be like to be Filius. He moves closer to the bed, tugging the sheets off, the blankets off, tossing pillows to the side, until there's only this dark-haired boy.

Filius wakes up, almost instantly, his eyes opening, but he is almost blind without his glasses. Lucius, smiling, leans over and smashes the glasses, sliding them to the floor. If he's going to do this, no one can know. No one can find out. Filius looks towards the noise, then back to the blurry shape in front of him. Lucius himself is getting a little fuzzy, the walls seem to spin as his heart speeds up. He pulls the boy off the bed effortlessly, still grinning madly. Drunkenly. He grabs the boy, pressing him closer, closer.

Filius screams, loudly, as Luce grabs at him. But then, cold lips press against his and his screams muffle, dying in his throat. He struggles and they both fall to the ground, Luce on top. Filius kicks and punches, trying to fight back, but Luce is bigger and Filius can't see. Luce is tearing at his clothes and he keeps screaming every time he can, every time he can get a breath. The rooms smells of alcohol and sweat and so do they, both of them. Alcohol, must, sweat, fear. All around, as Luce not only pushes into him, but punches back, his own, much larger fists fly at Filius, leaving bruises on his face. Luce tries to pull at Filius' pants and he bites the older man's hand, leaving him howling.

Luce shoves him to the ground and something sharp pushes its way into Filius' shoulder, momentarily paralyzing him. Then, he bends over, pulling the nail out, letting the dark blood splatter onto the floor. Luce grins at him, his eyes wild and his face twitching. He smells horrid, like he hasn't had a shower, or has thrown up on himself.

"Hello, F-Filius," Luce stumbles closer, and the smell only increases. Filius shoves at him, trying to keep Luce away, but, of course, Luce is stronger and bigger and isn't bleeding. The room spins as he tries to keep Luce away, and he feels light-headed. He tries to say something, yell something, but the only thing that happens is that he slumps to the ground, Luce tripping over him, sprawling to the floor as well.

_"Freak!" "Wizard!" "Abnormal!" "Freeloader!" "Trying to hurt my son!". _Words tumble through Filius' mind as he feels Luce stumbling around, pulling at his hair and clothes and breathing all over him with alcohol on his breath.

_"Get your wand, freak. Get your wand and stop me." _He moans, tries to kick at Luce, but he can't move anything and there is blood everywhere. He shrieks again, louder this time, and Luce punches him, leaving a bruise right on Filius' lips.

_"Kill the spare." "Avada Kedavra!" _He screams again, ignoring the pain in his body, writhing and shaking, trying to stop, but the room is swirling around and Luce is still there. Filius can't tell where he is or what is going on, but Luce is still there. More noises and sounds, thumps and bangs, and words that he doesn't remember. Everywhere, they're everywhere. Coming for him. He feels so ashamed, unable to fight, just lay there and give up. Give up, let Luce do whatever. And he wants to sleep now, he wants to sleep so bad, so he just closes his eyes, and _sleeps. _

"What are you doing, Lucius?" says a cold voice behind him, and Lucius turns to look at the Dark Lord, _Voldemort_, who stands in the doorway, looking _very, very _angry. He turns back to the boy on the floor, looking around at all the blood and the nail that still spins around, covered in blood. He stares at the shreds of shirt that he has ripped off the boy. He sees the wand pointed at him, hears the voice, the angry voice that somehow reaches his very core but doesn't seem to quite make it into his fuzzy brain, still swimming in alcohol.

"_Crucio,_" and he screams as the boy had just a few minutes ago, his own shrieking taking up the spot where Filius' had been. He howls and shakes and wishes he could die. Suddenly, he doesn't feel so drunk. Suddenly, he doesn't feel so powerful.

"You will never do that again, do you understand?" says Voldemort behind him. Lucius nods, scrambling into a quick bow, nodding and bowing until Voldemort raises a hand, looking annoyed. "You will never touch him again, never speak to him. This is..._disgusting_." He smiles coldly, cruelly. "_You _are disgusting. Who would have guessed? Lucius Malfoy, fascinated by the inside of a boy's pants. You've ruined him, Lucius. You've ruined what we've done. I'm ashamed for you Lucius. I'm ashamed _of _you. Do you hear me? You're worthless. Insolent. You deserve to be punished. Do you hear me? Are you aware you've just raped a child, or are you too drunk to think? Are you aware you've raped _my _child? Yes, you have, Lucius, don't deny it. You must be punished for this.

_Crucio!_"

The screams continue for an hour.

_**/ **_

_She opens her eyes to see Harry, sitting on her bed. He is laughing and smiling and he just looks so happy. He still has the long hair that all the guys seemed to have last year, hanging in wisps just below his chin. His eyes are bright and twinkling almost as much as Dumbledore's. He moves closer, putting his hand on the bed, near her leg. She twitches and he frowns, pulling away. _

"_Sorry," he says and it is still his voice, still the one she remembers. She looks around, confused as to why she is in her bedroom at the Burrow instead of her four-poster at Hogwarts before it hits her. This is a dream. Harry is still missing and Hermione is still at another school, where owls won't go and owls don't come from. He has been missing for four months now. They are deep into October and he isn't here. He should be here. _

"_This isn't the first dream I've had about you. Why do you keep coming back?" she blushes even as she says it, watching him smile. It's not quite the say smile, not exactly the one she remembers, but it's close enough, for now. _

"_Am I dream, then? I wasn't sure. But then, dreams rarely are sure about themselves. As are the dreamers, I suppose?" _

"_Are you dead, then? If not a dream," she asks, still watching him. "Are you a ghost?"_

"_Do I look like a ghost?" He smiles. Turns away, to look around her room. "No, Ginny. I am certainly not a ghost. I'm not dead, yet. Do you **want **me to be dead?_

"_No. I suppose not. Or maybe you are dead, and it's just that no one has bothered to tell me. They hardly ever tell me anything, just because I'm fourteen. I suppose it might be better for you to be a ghost. Or worse. I'm still not sure."_

"_I'm still fourteen, aren't I? In your mind, anyway. In your mind, in your dreams, I've never reached fifteen, have I?Yes, you're dreaming, Ginny. I'm a dream. No one here is a ghost. Everyone is a ghost. **You're **a ghost." He smiles again, stands up. _

"_What are you doing?" she asks as he hums, dancing awkwardly around her room. "You don't dance very well."_

"_I'm dead," he says simply, still dancing to silent music. "I'm a dream. I can do whatever I want. Come dance with me, Ginny. You're a dream, too. You're dead too. Come on, dance."_

_They dance, dance, dance. They're dreams, they're ghosts, they've never ever been real. They have always been real, for forever. For never. They dance. _

_**/**_

"_You don't forget the face of the person who was your last hope_._" (Katniss Everdeen) _

She hears howls every night. Loud and long, they keep her awake for hours until she has to just turn on the radio to drown them out. And even still, she wonders. Wonders if maybe living secluded in her old family home _wasn't_ the best idea. Reke had offered to stay with her, just for a while, but she insisted that she was fine. She wasn't so sure about that now, as she pulls on her jacket.

The howls have gotten louder, to the point where she didn't bother sleeping in the house anymore at night. Instead, she gets naps in at work and during the afternoon. It's been getting colder, but she lives near a marsh and it's October. This is all to be expected. What she didn't expect was the _noise._ At almost 11:30, unable to sleep and rather antsy, she steps out into the yard, breathing in cool, night air. She has always loved fresh air, one of the reasons she packed up, left her dad's house for this collapsing cottage. The other reason she never wants to think about again.

She decides to take a stroll through the woods, wondering if what she has been hearing is simply wolves. If so, then she's safe, because wolves wouldn't come this far south, into the marshy area. But then, if they wouldn't, why is she walking closer to them, into the woods? Her father had always said that she didn't think things through until it was too late, something she shares with her mother.

She is twenty-seven, a 'young thing', according to her father and aunt. 'Pretty', according to Reke. An 'idiot', according to her grandmother. And tonight, at least, she is very much the last one, wandering through the woods, looking for wolves. At this point, though, she wouldn't be getting any sleep, anyway, and the howling seems to be getting louder. She presses on, wondering if what she's about to find is going to be her death. Quietly, she crosses herself and mumbles a small prayer for protection. But tonight, like most nights, God feels pretty far away for this not-quite-Catholic girl as she nearly trips over a tree branch, cursing herself for not remembering to bring a flash light. She's never been one for the woods, preferring instead lakes or the urban jungle. As a child, she had stayed inside during playtime, making dolls out of yarn rather than go out and get dirty. Perhaps she should have climbed a tree, just once. It might have helped.

Instead, she stutters over tree branches and trips through bushes, nearly wakes the entire woods when she confronts a squirrel. She travels for what seems like forever in the dark, wondering when she'll have been out long enough for it to technically be tomorrow. Wonders if she _has _been out long enough for it to have turned into tomorrow. Just as she wondering if maybe she ought to just turn back and buy a pair of ear plugs, she sees it.

A large, dark shadow, much bigger than a wolf. It is more humanlike, but has the same grey fur as the ones in picture books. It turns to look at her, its eyes yellow and lamp-like, gleaming. It snarls, opening a mouth to show sharp teeth. The wolf-thing looks hungry and she stops in her tracks, staring at it.

"Ok," she mumbles to herself. She tries to control her breathing, but her heart is hammering, pounding so loud, she thinks it covers the howls that are still going on all around her. "Ok, it's just a really big wolf. That's all, a big wolf. If I don't move suddenly, he won't attack me. Or is that just dogs?" She takes a step back, her foot crunching on a stray twig and the wolf bounds, leaping for her. It knocks her to the ground, leaving a large, bleeding scrape across her forehead.

It circles back, leaping up at her again, leaving another scratch across her arms, which she throws up to protect her face. He takes a swipe at her stomach, making a large cut, which starts bleeding profusely.

"STOP!" yells a voice and she looks up to see a man, at least ten years older, who is running past her with a stick of wood in his hands. He's pale and has ratty dark hair that goes to his shoulders. "LEAVE HER ALONE!" he yells again, and points the wand at the wolf-thing, which, on second glance, seems to have somewhat _human _features.

But before the man can stop the wolf from doing anything (not that he could, with just that stick) the wolf lunges once more at her throat, tearing at it. Blood spills everywhere and, knowing she is dying, she looks up at the man, the last thing she'll ever see.

"Anna," she whispers, hoping he hears. "I'm Anna." Her eyes close, forever, as the wolf sniffs at her, licking at the blood that is still flooding the ground. The man flinches, staring at the wolf for another minute, before fleeing into the woods. A resounding crack hovers in the air for a moment, before being swallowed once more by the almost _human _howls.

In the shadows, a snakelike man walks through the woods, closer into the middle, where the main part of the "pack" lives and fights and transforms each moon. He smiles as he passes the werewolf, which eagerly licks at the dead Muggle. The wolves would surely join him, tonight.

_**/**_

_**Hey, what can I say? Sometimes the chapters come out like, 2 or 3 a day. Or just one a day, everyday for a week. Or you wait five or six days just to get one measly chapter that doesn't do crap for the story. (But, wait! This one starts the snowball effect! Don't leave me yet!) So, I'm inconsistent. It's just who I am. Can't you just feel the love? (Don't worry, I DO love ALL of you, even the ones who don't review. :D) Also, Harry is Not getting his memories back until almost the very end, sorry. **_

_**Gay Lucius, it's a possibility. He is gay in my mind, sorry if you see it any other way. I never thought that Narcissa/Lucius was or is a true pairing. Like Lucius says, he would die for her, but he does not love her. And not just because he is gay. There is simply no love in this arranged marriage. And no, he's not like Sirius, who I see as more bisexual. He IS just homosexual. He doesn't really like women, he sees them as inferior to begin with. (Which is why he seems to indifferent to Hestia's presence earlier in the story.) In my mind, he only walks away (in the 8th movie) b/c he wanted to protect Draco. Not necessarily Narcissa, though. Also, if you don't entirely approve of Gay Lucius, you could blame it on the alcohol. **_


	16. Run Away, Runaway

_**Because I love you, double update. It's totally not to make up for being a slacker. Nope, not at all. (whistles innocently)**_

_**/**_

_Freak. Weirdo. Magic doesn't exist! It's not real. You're pathetic, useless. Who would ever love you?_

He flinches.

_The boy falls to the ground, his grey eyes wide and unseeing. Suddenly, there is Tom, angry. He flings himself at Filius, who is sleeping. Dying. _

_Idiot. Homeless. Orphan. Go to hell! Why would I talk to you? Worthless. Freak. Freak. Freak._

Filius wakes up gasping, tears running down his cheeks. He flinches, realising there is someone in the room with him. Narcissa, who seems fascinated with his tears, but does not meet his glance, instead turning away. This is the third night in a row he has had nightmares. This is the third night since _the event. _Usually they're more spread out than this and more violent, but now all he sees is fists and dying boys he doesn't know and words, endless words streaming at him, hurting him. No matter what anyone says, words always hurt. Often times, worse than a thousand punches, stings a single word.

He sits in the new bed in the new room that they've placed him in. As long as he wasn't in the same

room, it appears is their thinking, he wouldn't mention _the event_. But with his left arm wrapped up and his right leg only recently healed, he still could see the blood on the floor. Could still see the hands ripping at him, smell the alcohol around him. Always, in his nightmares, can he see the fists, the face that seems to shift into another one, one he can't remember having ever seen.

Narcissa stands, blank-faced as ever, folding sheets silently. Her face is pale and emotionless, her actions stiff and robotic. She hasn't met Filius' eyes once since she came in, not said a word. He, too, simply watches, not moving or even daring to breath loudly. He doesn't say anything either, hasn't ever since Tom had dragged him and Luce apart a few days ago. He lives in his own silence, ignoring.

"He was going to kill you. Both of you, actually." says Narcissa suddenly, still not looking at him, folding sheets. The back of her neck goes pink and he knows she is blushing. "My husband. Luce," she replies to his startled look. "_I'm _not _your _mother. Who would want to be? You're nothing but rotten luck." There is a few more minutes of awkward silence before she swivels around to glare at him.

"I've always known about this..._thing_. His _problem_. Just after we were married and it was too late to do a damn thing. He was supposed to hide it, and never admit it, just sit there and pretend like he loves his little bride. And then, _you_. _You _show up and he remembers he's a...a," Shaking her head, she moves closer to the bed that he is laying on, her hand raising and brushing against his cheek softly. He flinches, tries to pull away, but she grips his hair, pulling his face closer until their eye to eye."He's still here, you know. In this building, recovering from an hour's worth of torture. He's never going to be the same. _I _won't be the same. If people found out..." She trails off, pulling her hand back, only to speed forward and slap him. It leaves a faint pink mark and he wordlessly rubs his own fingers over it, looking down at the blanket draped across his legs.

"I hate you, you know that? I _despise _you. I wish you would die. Every time I look at you, I dream of taking these hands," she holds up her slender, pale hands, showing them to him, but he refuses to look up. "and wrap them around your little neck," here she moves closer, and, instead of his neck, drapes them under his chin, forcing his head up, for his eyes to meet hers. "and then just squeeze. It would be nice, if that dream came true." She lets her hands slip away and his head drops back onto his chest, still silent.

"Talk, dammit!" she yells, slapping him again. "Why don't you say anything? Did you _enjoy _it? When my husband was raping you, did you enjoy it? _He _did. He hasn't touched me in almost fifteen years, did you know _that_?" She is breathing heavily now, but he still looks down, trying to ignore the tears that flutter at the corners of his eyes, slowly drip down his cheeks. She is crying, too. He can hear it, dry, muffled sobs.

"Tonight. Tonight and tonight only, I will help you escape. I will come tonight and you will tell me, tell me with words that you speak from your mouth, and I will help you out of here. After that, no more chances. Whatever punishment comes, I swear if you don't leave tonight, I will smother you to death. Do you understand?"

He nods.

_**/**_

It's been a month since he took off. He thinks. It's hard to tell time, left alone in the woods. The last time he has seen a person was almost three days ago, a young girl violently murdered right in front of him. He did nothing about it. There was nothing to do. The wolf reminded him to much of Remus, leaving him stuck, frozen as she was ripped at, clawed at. He ran away, changing mid-jump into his second form, his Animagus form. Large paws thumping on the ground as he fled, trying to get away from the smell of death. Trying to run away from _all _of it.

And now, what he assumes it three days later, because the sun has risen and set three times, he sobs. Nightmares plague his dreams, his waking thoughts. He can't escape, always seeing the face of this young woman.

"_Anne_,_" she whispers. "I'm Anne." _He did, does nothing about it. Who is there to tell, about the dead Muggle girl? Who would believe him about the werewolves? They'd assume he killed her himself and merely add that to his list of supposed "murders".

And so, he can not sleep, because Anne yells at him each night. Each day, following him around, asking _why? Why? _James is there, too, also. He asks as well, wondering _why? Why? _They both, his nightmares, his dreams, follow him and he runs. Runs away, far and fast, but it's never far enough, never fast enough. They still come, still wake him.

Harry shows up, too. Wonders why Sirius won't come rescue him. _I'm dying, Sirius. Help me. _But where can Sirius go? What can he do? Nothing.

_Help me. You could have helped me, Sirius. _

"Shut up! Shut up, James!" he yells, slamming his fist into a tree, because James isn't real. Isn't alive, not anymore. Sirius as good as killed him. Guilty by stupidity. Guilty by trust. He had _trusted _Peter. They had all trusted Peter, until it was too late.

_You could have helped. You should have agreed. You should have saved us. It's your fault, Sirius. All your fault. Who else is to blame? Remus? Lily? Yes, the werewolves killed me, _she says. _Yes, Voldemort killed me, _he says. _But it is your fault. You did nothing about it. _

Harry screams, loudly, a horrible wail that makes Sirius want to cry. So he does, collapsing to the ground, ignoring the dirt and the smell, because he's covered in it, too. He cries for hours, until there is nothing left, and then he cries again. Throws up, despite there being no food in his stomach. Throws rocks at trees, pretending each one is someone he hates. He hates all of them, but especially himself. His fault. James said so, Anne said so. Harry said so. His fault, all his fault.

He screams and Harry screams with him, until there is blood on the ground and blood in his hands. Shrieks, until his voice dies. The Dementors have already sucked happiness from him, years and years of happiness and memories, until he was a shell, a shadow. And then, to be back in the real world, with Remus and Harry, the memories came back, at least a little. But here in the woods, they were dying and so is he. He wants to die. Wants it so bad, to be where he belongs, with James and Lily and where he isn't going to be surrounded by guilt all the time.

_Help me_

The voices follow him constantly, demanding his attention. They scream at him, accuse him, hate him. James, Harry, Lily, Anne. All of them, always there. He screams back, wishing he could die, wishing he could kill himself, but he's too weak. He couldn't, wouldn't dare.

And still, they whisper to him as he tries to sleep. _Help me. You could have helped me. _

But he didn't, couldn't, wouldn't. He has failed all of them, all of them, even the people he never knew. He has failed them, but what else would you expect? He's Sirius Black, the expert at failing people.

_**/**_

_She stole the lace that used to hang in her room, from the bassinet that was handed down from child to child. Seeing as the bassinet still sat in her room, with the fading, moth-nibbled lace, she decides that it all must still be hers. She's six and the youngest child after six boys. Used to getting what she wants, for the most part, Ginny doesn't expect to actually be told off for using the lace. _

_She has grown up, as have many Wizarding children all over Britian, with stories of You-Know-Who and Harry Potter, the little boy who had defeated him. Harry Potter, the reason her mother did not have Daddy check in every hour, or send letters to Bill and Charlie and Percy every single day. Instead, she sent a letter a week, filling it with news of home at the Burrow, often with a few scribbled letters from Ron and Ginny. (the most recent one being Q, a tricky one.) _

_But, now that Fred and George are nine, and therefore the oldest until Bill gets back, they have decided that they don't have to do anything with Ginny and Ron anymore, instead casting them off together, as the younges two, the babies. Which, unfortunately for Ron, meant doing whatever his younger sister asks to do. _

_This is the reason behind why Ron now stands uncomfortably in the yard, where Mummy can't see them, because they're not entirely sure they're allowed to do this. Ron is wearing his nicest suit, the one he usually only wears when Auntie Muriel comes over, and Ginny wears the lace along with her curtain, her hair done up with a crown of leaves. Ron, scowling, grabs Ginny's arm, and hauls her over to the spot of brown that they have already marked as the "marrying spot" and then shuffles in front of her, holding one of Mummy's old romance novels. _

"_Why do I have to be the priest? I'm not a Muggle, even." Ron grumbles, but with a quick glance from Ginny, he shuts up and begins making up a random speech about how he "don't actually want to be here, but my sister made me so she can marry stupid Harry Potter, even though that's never really going to happen, because she's just my little sister and not someone important like him." Ginny steps on his foot, making him scream. _

"_That's not a **proper **wedding speech, it's got to be **proper**." Ginny sulks, but it's too late, and what's said is said. So Ron, still grimacing says to kiss the groom and she closes her eyes, imagining someone leaning in to kiss her. She imagines it's Harry Potter, who mostly just looks like a small boy with a face that she can't quite imagine, so she leaves that part alone. _

_But when she opens her eyes, she fourteen years old, still standing in the yard with the lace and curtain dress. Ron is gone, but Harry, too, stands there for real. He's still the fourteen year old Harry, but now his face is bruised and bloody. His hair has gotten longer and his eyes sadder. He isn't wearing a suit, but rather the Hogwarts uniform, which appears shredded, as if some animal has gotten to him. His eyes are sunken and his skin waxy. _

"_Hello, Ginny," he says, looking sullen and unhappy. He watches her for a few minutes before looking around the yard. "You have strange dreams, you know." She nods unsure of how to answer. This is not the first dream involving Harry. She's been having them for a month, even though she's dating Michael Corner. Harry seems to haunt her sleep, always showing up at some point. _

"_Why do you keep coming back? Why do you keep showing up in my sleep?"_

"_Why won't you come help me? I need help Ginny, but all you do is dream of being six years old and marrying me. Actually **do **something, Ginny. Stop dreaming about it, **do **it."_

"_How? What do I do? I don't understand!" But Harry only shakes his head and walks off, not looking back at her and suddenly she's six years old again and Ron's rolling his eyes, asking if he can go fly with Fred and George now, because this is silly. She nods, still feeling Harry's eyes on her, still hear his voice saying "Do something," but she doesn't know what to do. She's six and fourteen, and Harry's dead, but in her dreams, and possibly alive. So she simply tears the lace off, pulls the curtain off and runs inside, forgetting everything and just trying to **sleep **for once this month. _

_**/**_

_**Short, yes. Posted, yes. Pointless filler of a chapter, no. **_

_**In case you can't tell, yes, I do support Harry/Ginny. Hinny. Sorry. (Shrugs) Harry/Draco is cute, too. Who doesn't like Harry/Draco? Harmony, though? No. Just, no. No Harmony. Again, sorry. In reality, we are not going to get into a pairing war, b/c really? That's not what the story is about. Let's not turn this into Twilight, guys and gals!**_

_**So, in other news, my earbuds fell apart and I had to get a new pair. Unfortunately, I got the kidn that hooks around your ears (which I thought would be fun, as I've never had them) and showed them to Trinny. (If you forgot who Trinny is, check the end author's note from Chapter 12) She showed me that (a I was wearing them wrong and (b they kept falling off. Apparently, this is her way of saying I have small ears, something she's been pushing about for years. **_


	17. Taking Chances

_**A/N:Worst thing in the world? When in the middle of a shower, you wipe at your nose and blood, yes BLOOD, is all over your hand! (Poor genetics right there. Thanks, Daddy.) **_

_**Let's all boo, b/c I will be going to marching practice from 8-4 every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, which is going to GREATLY slow down my progress on this story starting in August. This worries be greatly and, therefore, I'll try to write as much and as fast as I can. Now, chapter 17: **_

_**/**_

"Filius! Filius! _Filius!_" hisses a voice in his ear, but he only rolls over, mumbling to the voice to bugger off. It's almost eleven at night and he's tired. "You little idiot, I thought you wanted to leave." says the voice and suddenly he jerks awake, staring at the pale face of Narcissa, who is shining her wand in his eyes. He flinches, but she doesn't bother lowering it, instead it seems to brighten, until he has to cover his eyes. Only then does she let it dim, dropping it so that it shines just below his chin.

"Heavy sleeper, are you, then?" she asks, smirking slightly. Without waiting for an answer, she tugs him out of bed, ignoring the fact that he's wearing no socks and the floor is cold. He gasps, but she only rolls her eyes. "Do you know the date?" He shakes his head. "It's October. October 23rd. Do you understand? It's October 23rd. You're fifteen years old and your name is, uh, what was it that woman called you?"

"Who, Ettie? She called me Jone. But my name isn't Jone, it's Filius-" It's the first time he has talked in three days, but she doesn't react, only cutting across him, looking annoyed.

"For now, it's Jone again, do you understand? I want you to climb out the window and run. Keep running until you can't run. Try to get out of the village, if you can." She looks him up and down. "Somehow, I get the feeling you'll drop after half a block, though."  
>"What if someone sees me? What do I do then?"<p>

"I've cast a charm that will keep you hidden from most people. It will last until you get out of the village, and then you'll be stuck being visible. And it will only last until the sun comes up, which is why I need you to run as far and fast as you can. Do you understand?" He nods and she moves to the window, cracking it open just enough to where he could get out. "It's good you're small. You'll find it easier to hide when you're so small." She stands straight up so he can see she's telling the truth. He is short, but being the only person his age, he isn't sure if it's because he's just fifteen, or if he's small even for his age.

"Now, I've given you a good head start before anyone notices you're gone, because I'm not supposed to check in here until morning. When morning comes, I _will _alert Tom to your escape and he _will _come looking. Do you know what this means?"

"Run as far away as I can? But why do I have to leave? Is there someone here who wants to hurt me?"

"Yes. Your father isn't a good man, Filius. He isn't even your real father. I can't tell you the truth, unfortunately, but I will tell you this. Tom, that man, he is your enemy. He is not someone you should trust. Now go!"

Filius, still somewhat sleepy and confused, nods and grabs his glasses, shoving on his face. Shaking, he clambers out the window, thankful for the vines and ridges in the wall, as he climbs down. He's been sleeping on the second floor, and the ivy still leaves just over two metres left to jump. It's cold outside, even for October, and he has no shoes, only a robe on that he usually uses to sleep in. It's not very thick, as the house is always an uncomfortably warm temperature and shivers climbing, his thin body swaying along with the vines. He's lucky, really, that he's staying such an old, unkempt house. When he reaches the bottom, his toes touch the cold stones below him and he shudders.

"Here," hisses Narcissa above him, and then a pair of trainers tumble to the ground, followed by socks and a pair of jeans. Last is a shirt, slumping to the dirt with a small _whoomp_. "Put them on. You'll look like a Muggle."

"But Muggles are bad! Amita says so! She says they'll kill us, people like us, if we interact with them. She says not to do anything like them, dress like them, talk like them," He's beginning to wonder if Amita is his enemy, if Amita has been lying as well. If, maybe, Narcissa is lying to him right now. Maybe he oughtn't leave, just in case this was only a plot to get him killed. But she seems very eager to get him out and gone.

"I know, I know, but just put them on! And stuff the robes into a bush or something. No one can know you're a wizard. Unfortunate, but true, you've got to go in disguise. And don't hang around too long!"

He does as she says, stripping down, feeling very embarrassed in the cold air. He pulls on the clothes, which after two months of just wearing robes, feels rather vulnerable. Suddenly remembering Narcissa upstairs, he glances up at the window, but she's already slammed it shut, clearly unconcerned about the half-dressed teen two floors below.

When he finishes dressing, he takes off running, his feet pounding on the sidewalks, though no one sees him. He feels, for the first time in months, free. He's actually free, in a way that he can't remember ever being. The faster he runs, he realises, the warmer he feels. Suddenly, it's not so chilly, his ears going red and his breath coming in shorter. But he likes this, _loves _this. It's refreshing, exhilarating. No one can see him, but he soon finds out they can hear him, when he crashes into a trash can, startling an elderly woman walking her dog. After that, he's much quieter, sticking to alleys and back roads, avoiding people and, especially, animals. Although it didn't seem that they can see it, dogs and cats could certainly _smell _him and, apparently, he didn't smell too good, if the barks and hisses mean anything.

Not sure where the village ends, Filius, or _Jone_, or whoever he is, keeps running, running faster and faster. He finds that he's strangely good at it, as if he's had a lot of experience, though he can't think of why. Cars race past, zipping along, and nearly sending him tumbling once when a couple of twenty-somethings took a corner much too fast. He sends a worried glance at the sky, where, off in the distance, he can see the beginnings of pink. Filius takes a path deeper into the woods, avoiding trees and jumping over logs.

Eventually, though, his legs begin to ache and he stops in the middle of a quickly brightening patch of trees, feeling tired and worn out. He decides a five, or possibly ten, minute break will help and collapses at the roots of a tree, closing his eyes. He quickly falls into the same dreams that have been plaguing him for months, dreams of screaming and dying boys and someone coming at him, thick, sausage-like fingers gripping at his neck while he cries and shrieks for it to all stop.

When he opens his eyes again, it's clearly been hours since he stopped. The sun shines in his eyes and he shields them with his hands, blinking to settle his sight. Groaning, he gets to his feet, guessing at the time to be around seven in the morning. He had slept for four hours. After trying to get the pain out of his stiff shoulders, he sets off again at a slower pace, deciding that since he can be seen, he might as well stay in the woods for a while. No one here will harm him, unless the rabbits scattering away from him were all secretly mass murderers.

Eventually, though, he runs out of wood and reaches a small collection of houses-a neighbourhood, very similarly laid out to the one that he's been living in for two months. But this one seems nicer, more modern, more people. He watches several kids, some younger looking than him and some older, clamber onto a bright yellow vehicle, chatting to each other. He wonders where they're going and if he should follow, but before he can move, the vehicle begins to move away, slowly chugging down the road.

He keeps walking, heading down the road, tucking into bushes. He doesn't see anyone anywhere, and just walks, wishing he could just _understand_. He isn't sure who's telling the truth or why none of his memories seem to have returned. Or why he has all these nightmares of death and being attacked and the names, always names being thrown at him in taunting singsong voices. He wishes he could just find someone to tell him the truth, instead of just telling him what to do and how to be. Instead, he has to listen to who he is, based off what others say he is.

"Shouldn't you be in school, young man?" asks someone behind him and he spins around, startled. It's a man with thick, scruffy brown hair and kind enough blue eyes. He's probably thirty or forty years old, wearing a casual suit. Frowning, the man takes another step towards Filius, looking him over. "How old are you, twelve?"

"Fifteen," Filius mumbles, blushing. How _young _did he look? First Narcissa, now this guy. He puffs out his chest, leaning to try appearing even older than fifteen. The man, noticing, gives Filius a condescending smile.

"Fifteen. Huh. What's your name, then?" he asks, taking another step. Thoughts of Luce fill Filius' head and he scoots back, away from the man. The guy frowns, looking thoughtful and worried, stepping closer.

"Why should I tell _you_? What's yours?"

He laughs, shaking his head. "Of course, I forgot. It's the 90s. You kids are so cynical nowadays. So mistrusting. Well, I'm David House. I live just up the road." He points to some spot just ahead of them, giving Filius another trusting smile. "So, what's your name?"

"Fil-Jone. I'm Jone."

"Have a last name, Phil-Jone? What's that short for? Philip something?"

"Just Jone. I, um, don't have a last name."

"Huh. Really. Well, Phil-Jone just Jone, how about we go to my home and you can meet my wife and maybe you can tell me where you live and your last name so I can get your mum and dad on the phone. Is that okay?"

"No." Why on earth would Filius go with someone he doesn't know? He might not remember anything, but he's not stupid.

David laughs and shakes his head, mumbling about "kids these days," before giving Filius a smile. "Well, Jone, that's a shame. But smart, I suppose. _Never _go a stranger, right? Isn't that what they teach you nowadays? And look at me, so old and outdated, huh? Well, I guess if you don't want to go, you oughtn't. Although, I hope you know that if you don't come with me now, I'll have to call the police to come pick you up. I suspect that, you probably being a runaway, you really don't want to be caught and returned to your family."

Filius shrugs, thinking quickly. "My parents are dead," he lies, not looking at David. "I've run away from an-an..." It's times like these that he curses whatever has happened to him to make him forget everything.

"Orphanage?" David suggests, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "Really? Well, then you'll _definitely _want to come to my house. My wife can feed you and we'll give you a bed and new clothes."

Filius _does _feel tired still and rather hungry. And he doesn't really want to be picked up by these "police", who might ask lots of questions and then just hand him back over to Tom. It might actually be safer to go with David. Therefore, with an uncertain nod, he allows David to walk him back to the house David lives in..

It's a small place, two bedroom, David explains. Their children, two girls and a boy, have moved out, the youngest just two years ago and he and his wife have just moved her a few months ago. David is fifty-three, older than Filius thought. He and his wife feel lonely, and were considering adopting a cat to keep company, because she didn't work and he is a custodian, whatever _that _was, and often works late into the night. When they reach the house, David opens the door, stepping in and calling, "Lydia? We've got a visitor."

A woman about David's age, with blonde hair and the same nice blue eyes, comes in through the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel. She smiles at David, but, upon seeing Filius, frowns, a thoughtful look crossing her face.

"Who's this, Dave? Surely, not _another _child that I wasn't aware of?" she asks, giving David a sharp look. _Another child? _What did that mean? David blushes and shakes his head, looking embarrassed and slightly frazzled. He leans in to give Lydia a small peck on the cheek, but she only pulls him away, raising an eyebrow curiously. David sighs, waving a hand at Filius.

"No. No more extra kids. Just a boy I found a few minutes away, wandering around. He's lost, apparently. A runaway."

"Should we call the police? His parents are probably worried."

"Says he's from an orphanage." It was like Filius isn't there anymore, just part of the background, watching the scene unfold while these two strangers decide his fate.

"Hm." says Lydia, not looking at all pleased. "I don't like this," she says, giving Filius another look. Suddenly, her eyes soften and she smiles slightly and she reaches out, leading Filius into a clean, well furnished sitting room. "Well, come on then. I suppose you'll be staying for now."

"Better than a kitten, is it, sweet?" asks David, smiling at his wife, following them into the room. He settles on the couch, winking at Filius.

"Hush, Dave. I'm still angry with you."

_**/**_

"I just don't think this is a good idea, David." says Lydia later that night. She has fed the child, Jone, and sent him to the other bedroom, all the while wondering what they were supposed to do with this kid. He claims to have no family at all, and no idea what his last name was. All he would say was that he is fifteen, his name is Jone, and today is October 23rd.

"Why ever not, sweetheart?"

"Well, how do you know you can trust him? What if he's lying? And besides, is this house really going to be big enough to hold a teen for a week or however long he stays here? How are we supposed to find the orphanage he apparently belongs to if he won't _tell _us?"

"We'll just check the newspapers until something shows up, I suppose. Besides, haven't you been saying you're bored at home? That you want someone or something to talk to? We could adopt him, he could stay here with you, keep you company,"

"I meant like a book club or a _cat_, Dave. Not a new _kid! _This is ridiculous. We're in our fifties, you're a custodian! It's not like we're millionaires. Do you think we can take care of a _kid?_"

"Well, yeah. I mean, it's not like he has anywhere else to go. At least let him stay, for now."

"Fine," Lydia huffs, shooting the door where Jone is sleeping a sharp glance. "But if he misbehaves, he's leaving. _Immediately._"

"Yes, dear."

_**/**_

_**To the Mysterious Guest who reviewed: Thank you! Please, feel free to keep reading. **_

_**I love throwing moments like the running in. He can't remember that he's a good runner b/c of Dudley. (Sorry, I thought it was funny anyway.) Some of this is written from experience. I've been "camping" (if no tents, food, or any connection to civilization for 3 days is camping) and have actually run away from home. **_

_**My mind is kind of annoying, b/c when I started this chapter, I was thinking "Yeah, this'll be awesome and fast!" And then it...wasn't. Gah! Why can't I come up with anything? (sulks and runs off to watch Doctor Who and avoid computer)**_

_**Anyway, getting closer to 50,000 words. Anyone else excited? You have no idea how obsessed I am with the word count on every single chapter. I'm constantly comparing them to each other and freaking out when they aren't within a set range. (OCD FTW? No. Not at all.) **_

_**DAVID IS A REAL HUMAN! SAY HI DAVID! **_

_(David:Hi? What's the point in this? Lane, did you make me middle-aged? I'm only 21! You gave me a freaking WIFE? LANE!) _

_**Sorry, got to run! David's not happy about his cameo. :)**_


	18. Let's Play a Game

_**A/N: Well...huh. I don't know crap about Quidditch. The only sport I do is Foosball. I'm boss at Foosball. Huh. Well, since David is mad at me, I'm going to give him the helm. So, Dave, write about your favorite past time: Quidditch!/ANY sport that exists, including the fake sport, curling.**_

_**(That means that David did about 85% of this chapter! 10% of this comes from the fifth book. I just did editing and...?... And the Luna parts! I did the Luna parts! I love you, Evanna Lynch!)**_

_**Let's all thank David for his hard work by reading AND reviewing! **_

_**/**_

Anyone who might have seen the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, Angelina, in the past few minutes, watching her wander about nervously and mumble obscenities, would think she is about to have a fit. It's an hour before the first Quidditch game of the year, Ron's first game _ever _where he's actually playing instead of watching Harry in the stands. Harry. Even if you hated him, one has to admit that Harry is an amazing Seeker. Irreplaceable. Ginny has _huge _shoes to fill. And Angelina is panicking because Ginny isn't _nearly _as good a Seeker as Harry and Ron is _completely awful _at being a Keeper.

In fact, the Slytherins have taken up a little song about it and have been passing by every few minutes whispering lines in Ron's ears. Some made badges reading the same, flashing and spinning in the team's face and always accompanied by smirking faces and little comments. Weasley didn't seem to be taking it well, going a nasty shade of green and having to be dragged to the changing room by his younger sister. They were followed, chased, by the cruel laughter of the Slytherins, singing "Weasley is Our King" as loud as they dare.

The air outside is crisp and icy, piercing the skin of anyone who dares step outside. Students scurry from the warmth of the Great Hall to the Quidditch Pitch, wrapped up in robes and jackets and scarfs. Many carry bottles and jars of twinkling blue fire, tucked inside their pockets for later use. Among these is Luna Lovegood, a Fourth Year Ravenclaw. Despite being a Ravenclaw, she wears a large, lion-shaped hat upon her head, which occasionally gives off a roar or at least a slight growl. The younger students give her frightened glances before hurrying to the pitch, hoping for a warm seat.

Luna hums cheerily to herself, oblivious to the fear her hat is causing. Her blue scarf clashes quite horribly with the hat, but she is oblivious to this, too. She is best friends, possibly, with Ginny Weasley, is doing well, decently so, in Potions, and has only had to find her shoes a few times-four times exactly, but Luna isn't the type to keep count of crimes against her. A sort of 'forgive-and-forget', but just without the ever really _recognising _that a crime has been committed against her.

She takes her time getting to the pitch, dawdling to look at a bit of grass or a pretty butterfly. Others rush past her, not seeing her, and one boy accidentally, Luna assumes, topples into her.

"My bad, sorry," mumbles the boy, picking her up. "Didn't see you. I'm a bit clumsy, you'll have to excuse me."

"That's okay," says Luna in her characteristic singsong voice. She recognises the boy from the train ride up to school, a Gryffindor a year above her. Nathan or Nick or something. "I was just admiring the grass. It's lovely, today. Wet and cold. It's going to frost soon and then the grass will be white. It will be harder to visit with no shoes, when the grass goes white."

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. Hey, you're that girl from the train! Lauren?"

"Luna. Luna Lovegood."

"Yeah. That's right. I'm Neville Longbottom. Um. Nice hat," he says, pointing at her hat. She smiles, tapping so that it roars, for demonstration. He jumps, giving it a startled look. "Does it _usually _do that? Roaring, I mean. Bit odd, for a hat, really. Never seen a hat roar, actually. My gran, she has a hat like a vulture, but it doesn't caw or flap its wings or anything. Certainly doesn't _roar._"

"I think it's a nice hat, one that roars."

"Hm. Well, if you like it, then, I guess. I'm headed down to the pitch, to watch the match. Are you coming? Suppose so, given the hat. You coming, then?" he asks, offering her his arm, which she ignores, heading down the path. Shaking his head, Neville follows after, but says good-bye, not very reluctantly, and heads off to the Gryffindor seats.

Quidditch, much like football or whatever it is you call it, can be very exciting but very tedious. It can involve a lot of weird plays that don't quite make sense and go on for ages and really amount to nothing. There's a very strong chance that someone is going to get hurt, but rarely killed. The adrenaline caught just from _watching _could probably power a small city.

Ron, unlike the other several hundred students outside, is not at all working off adrenaline. He's sweating like crazy, trying to think, to calm down. Fred, or possibly George, had told him to stick his head between his knees if he felt like puking. Regardless, green retched up acid spills over the floor of the boy's changing room as he tries to convince himself that he's not _mad _for signing up for Quidditch, merely a little stressed, and if he focuses, he most likely won't mess up _too _bad and no one will laugh at him _too _hard, hopefully. So far, it didn't seem to be working and he throws up again.

"You okay, Ronniekins?" asks one of his brothers (Ron can never tell the difference) grinning at him from the doorway of the changing room. "Because that pile of sick there says otherwise."

"I'll be fine, Fred. I'm only a bit nervous."

"I'm George, you ninny. Now come on, before Angelina has a conniption. She's already in a right state, panicking about us lot. Don't want to frighten her any more, do we?" George gives his youngest brother a quirky grin before pulling the boy off the bench. Ignoring his protests, he drags him out of the changing room, to where Fred and the rest of the team stands, listening to Angelina rambling on about the team.

"You okay?" Ginny asks, shooting Ron a quick glance, taking in his pale skin and twitching cheeks. She, too, looks slightly apprehensive. Ron hadn't known his sister could fly until this year, when she had come to try out for the Seeker position. Ginny had explained that she was really better equipped as a Chaser, but Angelina insisted on the Fourth Year being Seeker, as she is currently the closest thing they have to Harry. "You look sick," she continues, giving him a pitying look.

"Why does everyone insist on telling me that? I _know _I look bad. Can we just go play some damn Quidditch so this will all be over?"

Ginny gives him a solemn look before nodding silently, her fingers gripping her broom. Angelina waves the rest of the team over, explaining the plan quietly.

"Listen, Ginny, all I want you to do is focus. Work on finding the Snitch as soon as possible. Ignore Malfoy and the other Slytherins, they aren't worth it. Fred, George, you two try to knock as many of them as you can. Confuse them as much as possible. Katie, Alicia, and I will score as often as we can. We've already got a plan worked out for that." Alicia and Katie nod, though neither look too sure about their "plan". "And Ron," Angelina says, turning to look at the Fifth Year, who gulped audibly. "Just...if you can block the Quaffle like you did in practice, we'll be fine. All you have to do is breath and calm down. Alright?"

Ron nods but mumbles to himself, "That block was an accident." Just then, Madam Hooch, the sharp-eyed referee, blows her whistle, waving at them all to come onto the pitch to start the game. Ron gulps again, wishing, not for the first time, that he hadn't had the nerve to even try out for Keeper, seeing as that nerve has apparently abandoned him now.

The second Neville sees Ron take position in front of the three goal posts, he knows Gryffindor is doomed. Not that Neville doesn't have any faith in the rest of the team, or Ron, but rather that it's very clear Ron has no faith in himself. Looking at him through his dented and scratched (from many clumsy tumbles down the stairs) binoculars, he can see the apprehensive look on Ron's face, the way he keeps shifting and twitching.

And Neville is right. The game ends up a complete disaster, due to a number of things. The Slytherins, it would appear, were only working under the instructions to be as bloody aggressive as possible, slamming into the Chasers any chance they got. Angelina and the others (to anyone not on the team, the three girls were somewhat interchangeable) are forced to swoop and duck, diving to avoid being smashed into. Ginny, too, flew much higher than normal to avoid the Bludgers flying everywhere.

The Slytherin Chasers grab the Quaffle every time one of the girls drop it, forced into it to avoid getting hit. Then, speeding at Ron, the Chaser would lob the Quaffle into whichever goal Ron wasn't protecting as well, and score a goal. When this happens, Ron would appear disappointed, and terrified, his suspicions confirmed-he clearly lacked the talent to play. Then, the Chasers would come by again and, still under the impression that he couldn't do a bloody thing, Ron would again fail to block the Quaffle from flying in.

There was also the fact that Malfoy, the little git, keeps tailing Ginny, copying every move she makes and, every few seconds, speeding up so that she, too, would have to fly faster to avoid collision. He shoots her a cheeky smirk and slips underneath her, still tailing her. As the two zip around the pitch, the faint echoes of "Weasley is Our King", the rather rude song the Slytherins have made up, fill Ginny's ears. It messes the entire team up, unnerves them. Pretty soon, the score is 90-20, in Slytherin's favor and Neville has given up all hope for a Gryffindor win. The only reason the score would change at this point would be if Ginny got to the Snitch before Malfoy, and so far, that didn't appear to be happening, as neither Seeker is very interested in finding the Snitch, too caught up in trying to knock the other off their broom, along with avoid being knocked off themselves.

The games goes on for almost an hour, Ginny rolling around in the air, still looking for the Snitch. She keeps glancing around for the thing, which has apparently decided to hide. Behind her, the Slytherins have started up another round of "Weasley is Our King", meaning that they have scored another goal. 110-50. Unless she could find the Snitch soon, Gryffindor would lose and it would be her fault. She winces, listening to the cheers again. 120-50. Just then, she thinks she sees a glint of gold, twisting around to see the Snitch. It was hovering around the Slytherin's goalposts. Grinning, she sped off, towards the posts. Behind her, she can hear Malfoy, surprised, also taking off. She has the head start, but Malfoy's broom is better, faster. Too soon, they're neck and neck, trying to knock each other off _and _still reach the Snitch. Ginny leans out, reaching for it, getting closer and closer. Her fingers wrap around it as Malfoy slams into her and she narrowly avoids falling off. Slowing her broom down, she gradually drops to the ground, where Angelina grabs at her, giving her a hug. Katie and Alicia both scream wildly as Ron drops beside her. Fred and George give her identical grins before running off to find Lee.

"Bet you enjoyed that, didn't you, Weasley? Winning your only game this year?" snarls Malfoy, giving her a dirty look. He smirks, then makes a sign. "Too bad Potter isn't here. You might have had a chance."

"You lost to _us_, Malfoy. What are you talking about?"

"I _let _you win, Weasley. If your brother over there wasn't such an idiot, I wouldn't have been distracted and you would have lost. Face it, you guys are nothing. All four of you, really."

"Excuse me?" asks Fred, who has just returned with George and Lee. They all glare at the Slytherin, who merely smirks again and gives them a triumphant look.

"You four have no real talent. But then again, you are Weasleys, aren't you? You get off by charity and begging. Probably the only reason you'd ever win a game, anyway. I mean, just look at this! You look in a hovel, you're dirt poor, who honestly believes you four have _any _talent?"

George lunges at Malfoy but Ginny and Katie hold him back, Angelina, Alicia, and Lee grabbing Ron. The group pulls away from Malfoy, still laughing and shooting insults at them, as they drag the three Weasley boys out of earshot.

"Let me punch him," Fred growls menacingly. "I want to kill that little rat."

"You'll get suspended," says Angelina, shooting him a fierce look. "I'm not going to lose my team again just because of one little moron. Ignore him, Fred."

"Good thing we didn't attack him," Ginny mumbles. "Umbridge might have kicked us off the team if we had done something to him."

_**/**_

_**A note from David:**_

_First off, I am 21, not 50-something. I am a perfectly happy, well-adjusted college student. Lana is a delusional little punk who is going to die. She has ruined my image. **(flicks hair) **I did not flick my hair, Lane! **(Lana smiles and sheepishly disappears) **Ignore her. She's 14 and rather childish. (reads chapter over again) Does this mean you're officially Luna/Neville shippers? Have you joined the ranks?_

_**Um, no. Luna/Rolf FTW, man! **(boo)** Neville's a friend, not her future lover/spouse/father of her children/sperm donor/other title that essentially means sex buddy. Who needs Justin Bieber? Canada's new hero:David Princeton House! (Are you still mad at me, Davie?) **_

_Don't call me Davie. Or Dave. Or Davvy or anything else. (Sex buddy? The hell?)_

_**Yessir, Mr. Princeton, sir. (No cussing, now, Mr. Princeton, sir. It's already bad enough that the characters in the story cuss. We don't need that from you, too.) **_

_Lane, I'm going to kill you. I'm just going to kill you. (Yeah, but sex buddy? Really?) _

_**Will Filius ever get help? Will Ron figure out what to do? Will Hermione survive? Will I survive? All this-and more-MIGHT be answered! LATER! And remember-sex buddy!**_

_(God, I feel perverted even writing that. Sex buddy...gosh. Lane, what little followers you think you have are going to turn away after reading this.) _

_**(I know, David. I know.) **_


	19. Dream, Hero, and Remember

_**A/N: No! This was supposed to be up on Tuesday! Where has the week gone? **_

_**But, in brighter news, by the time you finish reading this, we will have hit the 50,000 word mark, something I've never accomplished with a story before, mostly b/c 95% of my stories are one-shots. (shrug) I know, I know. I'm a lazy slacker. Anyway, my friend Turtle (if you don't remember, she's the one who lives in London and has cancer) has been emailing me a lot recently and says she (finally) got around to reading this. She, too, thinks I've gone batty. I have, haven't I? Oh dear. **_

_**Read on, my,uh...well, you're not quite friends. Not really acquaintance, either. Haven't met you. Any of you.**_

_(I have an idea!) **(I am terrified to ask. What is your great idea, Trin?) **_

_Read on my__** (oh this is so stupid!) **readers! **(I'm dying from the stupidity of that statement. No, really. This is me, dying. Thanks, Trin.)**_

_(You didn't have anything better to say. Besides, I think everyone likes me way more than you. I think I should take over the story.)_

_**(Touche. About the first thing. No one really wants to hear YOUR version of MY story, Trin.) **_

_**/**_

They say that dreams can tell you a lot about a person. Their greatest fears, their deepest desires. A dream can tell you the future and the past. Dreams are created to tell us secrets that we would never figure out in our waking moments, sent to reveal the truth about everything, even the greatest truths. They say that dreams are gateways to other worlds, worlds of your own imaging and creation, and worlds that you can only arrive at in sleep. We can do almost anything in dreams-magic, flight, even become the rulers of vast worlds in which you are responsible for the great peace upon the land. Or they can scare you, give you visions of being chased by the worst monsters one can think up. The monsters, it is said, are real and you, for a few moments, are the dream.

Then again, others are quick to point out that fantasy should stay with childhood. Flight and magic don't exist and no matter how hard you look, you will never find them. The monsters in your nightmares aren't real and they aren't going to hurt you. There are no secrets, no hidden meaning in your dreams. They are just pleasant, or not so pleasant, images sent by your brain based off what you've seen on television or read in the newspapers. None of it is real, when you wake up panting. It was all in your head. Focus on the real world, where the monsters are merely shadows or possibly just a particularly mean teacher. Dreams are, they say, just that. _Dreams. _And the only ones who focus on dreams are children and fools. Well, Professor Trewlaney, as well, but she's nearly a fool herself, and doesn't really count.

It does no good to dwell on dreams, after all.

Sometimes, Filius wonders if, just maybe, his dreams aren't normal dreams. Such as when he closes his eyes and finds himself in the sitting room of a house he has never seen. As he watches a family of Muggles being rounded up and tortured. A nameless, faceless family of Muggles that he doesn't recall having ever met. As he watches his "father" interrogate them, asking them questions. When they don't respond, or give the "wrong" answer, Tom smiles and waves him wand at them, murmuring "_Crucio!_" and the person would scream. Filius, too, would rock and moan in his sleep until David or Lydia rush in, shaking him awake.

He sees the looks they give each other, the looks of confusion and worry. He has tried to explain it, to convince them that he can do magic and there are people out there, looking for him, but David had only shaken his head, asking if these people looking for him belonged to the orphanage. But Filius could not answer, will not answer, and only falls asleep into nightmares, far too real nightmares, once more.

_(|)He sees a woman, around twenty-five or so, laughing and dancing along with a radio that plays in the background. The skirt of her dress is long and reaches her ankles. Her dress is all white, matching the heels that have been tossed in a corner. She smiles, her dark hair pinned up. Filius turns to look at the wall, where a calendar hangs from 1947. 1947. 'That was almost forty years ago', he thinks absent-mindedly, watching the woman, still. 'She's probably an old woman now,' He looks back at the woman, who is dancing with a man, both of them smiling at each other, wrapped in each others arms. The man wears a nice suit, grey, with a bright blue flower in the pocket. Filius doesn't recognise either of them, and they don't seem to see him. In fact, as the two spin, the woman's foot seems to go right through him, as if Filius is just a ghost or an apparition. _

_They look happy and in love. Filius thinks the woman seems familiar, in the way that your old baby-sitter looks, after you haven't seen her for twenty years and you've just run into her at the supermarket. She laughs and continues to dance, the man releasing her as she spins around and around, smiling and laughing, until she tumbles into the man. The woman kisses the man on the cheek, cheerfully waving her hand, where a golden ring glitters. _

"_It's lovely, Charles, don't you think?" says the woman, smiling. "I love the ring almost as much as I love being married to you. Almost." Her voice is teasing, soft and with a laugh behind it. _

_Charles nods, laughing, and opens his mouth to say something when everything goes dark, Filius' eyes clouding and the room seems to swirl._

_(|)When he opens his eyes, the scene has changed and Filius is sitting in a bedroom, on the windowsill next to the same woman. She looks older now, late twenties, and holding a baby. Cooing, she kisses the baby on the forehead, and it giggles. A man, Charles, stands in the doorway, smiling. _

"_He's beautiful, isn't he? Don't you think, Charles?" _

"_Of course. He's our son. Jonson." says Charles, coming to sit next to to her. Filius recognises the room. It's the same one at Ettie's house. Twisting around, he can see a cabbage patch outside, though it looks nicer and better kept. The woman is Ettie, before she had gone crazy. She sits there, humming to the baby, Joneson, who Filius realises must be Jone. Ettie hadn't been lying about having a son and husband-but Filius **isn't **Jone. He's too young. _

"_Do that thing again, please," says Ettie, smiling at Charles. He nods, pulling out a slender piece of wood. Mumbling something, he points the wand near Ettie and Jone, making colourful bubbles appear. Jone smiles and Ettie laughs, watching the bubbles. "Is it really magic?" asks Ettie, giving him a look of child-like wonder. "Really magic? Are you really a wizard?"_

"_Yes," laughs Charles, pointing his wand at the dresser, which turns into a pig, oinks once, and then transforms back into a dresser. "see? How many street magicians do you know that could do that? I really do know magic and I really did go to a magic school. Suppose, if Jonesy here is anything like me, he will, too."_

_Ettie's face lights up, like a child on Christmas, watching bubbles continue to float out of his wand. "It will be lovely," she says softly, leaning closer. _

_(|)Again, the room darkens, until his eyes clear, revealing the same room. The only difference is the cot has been switched out with a small trundle bed. Instead of a baby, a three or four year old boy is in the room, playing with a bear. He laughs, the same laugh as his mother, smiles the same. His eyes hold the same soft kindness. His blonde hair flops in his eyes, giving him a playful look as he nibbles at the bear's ears. _

_Filius watches the boy for a few minutes before standing up, heading downstairs. In the kitchen, which is much neater now than in his time, Ettie and Charles make breakfast, whistling and singing and talking to each other over the radio, which rambles away, ignored, in the corner. They seem happy, content. It's quite even for a Saturday morning. _

_Just then, with a loud boom, the door slams open and several men wearing dark masks rush in, each holding a slender piece of wood, similar to the one Charles has, in their hand. One of them steps towards Charles, and cocks his head, as if thinking. Charles pulls out his own wand, glaring at the men circling him and his wife. Ettie shrieks as Charles pulls out his own wand, giving the men dirty looks. _

"_You're a wizard!"gasps one of the men. "What are you doing with this Muggle filth?"_

"_She's my wife. Unlike some people, I don't merely see what they are, but rather **who **they are." Charles snarls. "If you'll be so kind as to leave my home, now." The men laugh and move closer, still holding up their wands. _

"_Who are they?" asks Ettie.. _

"_We are the Knights of Walpurgis. It is our mission to clean the world of filth like this," says the man who appears to be in charge. He nods towards Ettie, as one of the others spits on her dress, inciting more laughter. "That means you, darling." He drawls. "Unfortunate that a pretty little girl like you has got to die, but oh well. Now, Mr. Blood Traitor, you'll need to admit your mistake a' marrying this girl here, and we'll let you go, quick as you please. 'Course, we'll have'ta kill your wife, but she's a Muggle, not worth much, anyway. You've got five seconds to leave and then we'll just kill you,"_

"_No. She is my wife, regardless of whether she is a Muggle or not. You can't tell me to give up my family and get out. I'm staying and I'm going to protect my wife. Now, **you **get the hell out before I alert the Ministry about a couple of young lads harassing my family." says Charles firmly, blocking Ettie with his own body. The man shrugged, apparently unconcerned._

"_Have it your way then, mate. **Avada Kedavra!**" yells the man and Charles' body crumples to the floor, his eyes open but unseeing. Ettie screams and heads towards the staircase. Filius tries to stop the men, but he only passes through them, nonexistent. _

"_**Crucio!**" yells the man, pointing his wand at Ettie. She, too, collapses, but instead of dying, she tumbles to the floor, twitching and convulsing. She screams, a high noise. Upstairs, Jone begins crying, almost like a hungry cat, mewing. _

"_What the hell is that?" grumbles one of the men, making his way past the shaking Ettie and up the stairs. He returns a few minutes later with the still crying child, who's voice strengthens, becoming louder, his voice joining his mother's in a shrieking duet. _

"_Shut it up!" someone else hisses as the first man casts "**Crucio!**" again, others laughing, some covering their ears to block the sound of Jone. "Shut it before neighbours hear!"_

"_Aren't any neighbours to hear, anyway," laughs the man holding Jone. He shakes the boy wildly, grinning with delight as the boy continues to howl, clearly terrified. The man torturing Ettie continues on for ten, fifteen, thirty minutes while the others ransack the place and discuss what to do with Jone. _

"_Kill it already. Kill the damn thing, already!"_

"_Oi, look at this silver necklace! Probably cost a lot, wouldn't you think?"_

"_Not if it's Muggle filth jewelry. Wish this damn kid would shut up." _

_'Weird painting, these,"_

"_No, forget the paintings and focus on the damn kid." says another. "We can raise 'im to be like us."_

"_What if he's Muggle?"_

"_Then we'll kill 'im if 'e is. But if 'e's like us, we'll keep 'im, right? Makes the most sense, don't it?" On the floor, Ettie still convulses, her body slamming into walls and scraping. Blood spills from a scrape on her forehead and she continues to scream and cry. Her shouts are incomprehensible, merely just scraps of cuss words and pleas for mercy. Her eyes unfocus as she rocks back and forth, shrieking for God to kill her now. _

"_Fine," says the one in charge, still grinning. "Let's go. Leave the Muggle filth to suffer." He casts a final curse on Ettie, leaving her to shriek in pain, before snatching the boy and turning towards the door. "Come on, then." _

"_'ope she kills 'erself, in the end. I like it when they do that. We should stick around to watch, in case she does."_

"_Just come on, you idiot. We've got to hurry." _

_Filius drops onto the floor, trying to get Ettie to stand up, but she only continues to shake and moan. He pushes at her shoulders, mumbles to get up, tries to shove her to her feet, but again only passes through. _

"_Come on, come on. You've got to get up," he says, but she only moans again. Suddenly, she pushes herself to her feet, not seeing him. She turns to where her husband lays, a smile on her face. _

"_Good morning, Charles. It's nice to see you." Her eyes are wide and pale as she picks her husband's body up. She turns towards a pot, talking to it. "I'll just get rid of this trash here, and then we can make breakfast. Can you get Jone?" she asks, opening the door and dragging him outside. Filius follows her into the woods, where she sets the body down. Already, her hair is fading to a pale, dead white, her eyes not seeing, acquiring a dead, haunted look. She hums to herself as she plods back through the cabbages. She turns to look at Filius, and, despite everything else, smiles at him. _

"_Jone, you've come back," she says, smiling, and suddenly her face has aged and her body is brittle, the way he remembers it. Her hair has thinned and her face sunken. Her dress is soaked in blood and, as she comes at him, her voice heightens until it is a shriek. "You've come back. Back." He can hear her voice everywhere as she moves closer and closer. He screams, trying to pull away, but again can't move. He yells again. _

"Jone!" yells David, grabbing at his shoulders and shaking him awake. "Jone, you've got to wake up! Come on, now."

Filius wakes up shaking and shivering. He's drenched in sweat, his body twisting to get away from David, curling up against the wall. In the doorway, he can see Lydia, her arms crossed and frowning. He sobs, a dry sob, and shivers again. David wraps the blankets around him and makes comforting noises in his ear. Finally, after several minutes, Filius stops crying and steadily, his breath calms and he falls back asleep. David lets the boy drop back onto the bed, leaving the room.

"I told you this is a bad idea. This is the fifth night in a row. You said he'd be here for a week, David. It's been almost a month. What are we going to do with him? He can't stay here forever."

"I know," says David sadly, glancing at the bedroom door. "But where else is he going to go?"

"You could send him to Emily's" says Lydia curtly, her mouth curling in disgust at the name. "I'm sure _she'd _love to take care of the child."

"Can you leave Emily out of this? I told you, I'm sorry. It was twenty years ago, can't you forgive me?"

"While your bastard child sits, alive and well, while one of my own children is dying of cancer? No, I can't, David."

David sighs, running his hands through his hair. He had expected this. Lydia is never going to forgive him for Emily, always holding the girl over his head, but she doesn't need to lash out against the little boy in the room behind them. He tells her as much, her eyes shuttering as he talks.

"It's just, I didn't sign up to take care of another problem, David. I'm not a mum, anymore. I'm a middle-aged woman who just wants to live in my house normally and peacefully with no runaways in the bedroom and _no _bastard children in the corners."

"I know. We're just going to have to get used to it, I guess."

"Humph. I'm tired of getting used to it." she snorts, turning back towards their bedroom. "If he panics again, _don't _wake me up,"

_**/**_

_Voices howl around him, calling his name. He tries to shrink away, hiding in the dark corners of the room, but they rush past him, winds knocking him over. He falls onto cool stone, his palms stinging. He wants to scream, but no sound comes out, just a silent gagging. He shudders, standing up, only to be pushed back down. They're faceless, nameless, timeless. He tries to call out for one of them, and again, finds he can not make a sound. He shivers and retches, empty heaves that do nothing to help the pain in his stomach. A splash of water drives across his face and he opens his eyes to see a vast ocean on all sides. The room is gone, replaced by the howling water and constant voices. He stands on a large stone, barely big enough to fit two people. It's cold and he shudders again, his fingers brushing against the icy rock. _

_Suddenly, there is a woman, a young woman, with dark red hair. She has the same green eyes as Filius, the same curling mouth. She smiles at him and waves a hand at the voices. The noise quiets and his eardrums stop pounding. The water calms down, settling into dark, murky blackness that stretches past his imagination. He can't see anything besides the woman who, in her long white dress, seems ethereal, like a faery. _

"_Loud, isn't it all?" she asks sympathetically, settling down on the rock next to him. She gives him __another smile and scoots closer. "Never a big fan of the sea, to be honest. Too wide, too deep. Always thought that there were too many secrets in the ocean for my taste." He gapes at her, open-mouthed. The woman doesn't look like anyone he's ever seen, and yet, appears so familiar. _

"_It's nice to see you again, Harry," says the woman, giving him a kind look. The air around her felt gentle, peaceful. Nothing like anywhere he has ever been. Almost as if someone has taken a big quilt and wrapped it around him while he sleeps next to a fire. "It's been, what, ten years?" She looks at him again, surmising his age. "No, longer. Twelve, maybe. You can't be much older than thirteen or fourteen years old. You're too small to be any older." With a sigh, she leans back, lying across the cold stone as if she didn't feel it, couldn't feel it. Puzzled, he stays sitting up, watching her apprehensively. _

"_I'm sorry, but who is Harry?" he asks, finally finding his voice. Now, __**she **__gives __**him **__a bemused look, as if he's asked a rather daft question that she can't quite figure out. She sits up, smoothing her white dress, which is miraculously stainless, despite the grubby moss around them. _

"_You are, of course, sweetheart. I should know. You look just like James." She nods, looking at him thoughtfully. "Except for the eyes, of course. You've my eyes. Suspect you've heard __**that one **__quite a bit before, haven't you?"_

"_Sorry, I don't know who you are," mumbles Filius, blushing. He felt like a naughty child caught up in a quickly unfurling lie. "I've never met you before in my life. I don't know who James is and my name isn't Harry, it's Filius." _

"_What have they told you, Harry?" asks the woman, looking startled. "Who's been telling you all that? Not Sirius, obviously. Not Remus. Has my sister been lying to you?" she pauses, thinking. "No, Filius doesn't sound like her, does it?"_

"_My father is Tom Riddle," Filius says, not entirely certain of himself. _

"_No! No!" the woman shrieks, jumping to her feet. Her red curls begin to blow wildly in the wind that picks up around them. "No, no, no! What are you talking about? You're __**my **__son! You're __**James' **__son! What have they done to you, Harry? What have they done?" _

"_You're lying!" Filius yells, shoving at the woman. "I don't know who you are, but you're not my mum." He shoves her again and she tumbles into the ocean, disappearing under the water. He gasps, startled by his own actions, but before he can move, she already breaks the surface, bobbing morosely. She gives him a sad smile, a pitying smile. A loving, lying, much too real smile. _

"_They've lied to you, Harry," she says, fading from sight. "You need to find the truth. You need to find Harry again. Bring him back." Around him, the voices become louder as her one voice becomes softer, until only whispers remain, nearly drowned out by the others. _

He wakes up with her words still in his ears. "_Bring him back._" He doesn't think he can. He doesn't think this boy even exists anymore, if he ever did. And his name is _Filius_, not Harry. Harry is someone else. The woman was confused and it is not Filius' job to go searching for her mistakes.

He is not Harry.

_**/**_

_**If all goes according to the outline, and I don't come up with any other wild ideas, we should now be more than half-way through the story. Cheers! **_

_**I'm so mean to Filius/Jone/Harry, aren't I? Should I give him his memories back? Well, the outlines says not to, yet...so...sorry. **_

_**Also, anyone who has read the Wikipedia page for the group commonly referred to as the "Death Eaters" knows that, early on, the group "Death Eaters" called themselves the "Knights of Walpurgis". The name was later changed, for reasons unknown, to "Death Eaters". This act occurred in roughly the 1970s. The confrontation between Ettie and the "Knights" happens in mid-1950, roughly 1953. It was common for them to kill and torture Wizards (especially Wizards who had married Muggles) and their entire families. **_


	20. Eye of the Snake

_**A/N: I'm thinking about writing a story about James and Lily. (favorite pairing right there!) What's your opinion and what are some really good ones to look at (to start as a jumping off point)? Some of the dream is taken from Chapter 21 (Eye of the Snake) of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix **_

_**/**_

"_The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few" Spock, (Leonard Nemoy) Star Trek II:The Wrath of Khan _

When he had first signed on as the Minister's, the _Minister of All of Magical England_, assisstant, Percy wasn't originally aware of what this truly meant. The work, the stress, the loneliness. The fact that he is often called upon to sit through court hearings, to judge the guilty. Having stood to the side as a screaming mother has her fourteen year old daughter ripped from her hands and shipped off to a Muggle-born school. But what he's doing is _good_, is _right. _It has to be, he tells himself. The Minister approves, and the people elected the Minister, so he _must _be a good man, a smart man. Because what he is doing is helping to stop the Ministry, and by default the _world_, from crumbling under the power of their enemies. If this meant he squirms a little over his actions, and his superior's actions, then so be it.

Sometimes, when he's feeling particularly cynical, and has had more than a few Firewhiskies, he disgruntily thinks to himself that all of this seems a bit much for someone two years out of Hogwarts. Sure, he likes the pay and the power his position gives him, but Percy's only twenty. He had expected a job like this after five or ten years of work. Not that he's usually complaining-except for nights like these when his arse was cold and his toes were numb from having sat for hours, writing fact after fact on a tiny bloody sheet and he's not even sure what time it is and-the clock chimes, ten times, and Percy shivers.

It is late, much later than Percy expected. Fudge had insisted Percy stay in to finish up some paper work while the Minister himself skimped out a little early. Not that Percy _blamed _the Minister for leaving him behind. After all, it was almost Christmas and really only one of them had a true social life to go home to. Assuming that a bird didn't really count as a social life, seeing as Percy rarely even says hello to his neighbour, a Ravenclaw just out of Hogwarts. And besides, this is the _Minister of Magic_ you're talking about. He doesn't exactly need an excuse to walk out a little early and leave his assisstant behind, now does he?

But it's December and snow is beginning to settle outside, not that Percy can see it. Someone in Maintennance is clearly craving for sun, as all the windows merely show bright sunshine and palm trees. But if he strains his ears, he can hear the sound of the wind outside. For the most part, the hallways are empty, save the occasional cleaner, and he begins whistling to himself, content. As content as he can be, anyway. His head still swirls with the number of students being placed in the new school, or the number of times You-Know-Who's name has been mentioned. Trying to pretend, just for a few seconds mind you, that he isn't involved in any of that, Percy allows his feet to wander into the elevator, pushing a random button at will.

On Percy's way to work, he recalls seeing Muggle carolers, singing about goodwill and peace towards men. They had all been dressed in heavy jackets and their noses were pink, but they had seemed happy and close. Like a family. That, a family, was something Percy neither has nor wants at this moment. Especially not the parents and siblings he's left behind, with their silly beliefs that You-Know-Who is back and that Dumbledore is telling the truth. After all, Potter was a liar and now he's dead.

Eventually, the doors open and he finds himself facing dark stone hallways. He is in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with no idea of how he's gotten here. Sighing at his own absent-mindedness, Percy turns to get back in the elevator, only to find it missing.

"Great. This is wonderful, just _wonderful_. Now what am I supposed to do?" he grumbles, setting off deeper into the Department, hoping an Auror or at least an Unspeakable has decided to pull a late night as well. "Anyone here?" he calls, looking around. Instead, he hears hissing, the whispers of something against stone. Turning around, he looks to see-

_**/**_

_He sleeps fitfully in his room, tossing and turning. He can hear snow outside, loudly pounding in a way he knows snow does not. His dreams are always filled nowadays with the dead, unable to move or help, only watch. Mostly, he burrows under his blankets, waiting for the screams to become loud enough that David comes running in to help. He can do nothing else. A spectator in his own dreams. He's watching a thin, pale man in his mid-thirties, stumbling around in the woods, talking to things that aren't there. _

"_James!" the man calls, sounding desperate. "James! Please! Remus! Lily! Harry! Somebody?" He collapses to the ground, clearly exhausted, and sobs. Filius does nothing-he can do nothing. He just sits, waiting for this dream to end, only so he can tumble into a newer, darker nightmare that leaves him shaking and sweating. Sometimes, the dreams aren't as bad-just feelings of warmth, of another presence that exists, but isn't there, exactly. _

_Suddenly, the scene changes, the sobbing man disappears. He's now in a dark hallway, cold marble all around. His body feels smooth, powerful and flexible. He is gliding between metal bars, across dark, cold stone...he is flat against the floor, sliding along on his belly...it is dark , yet he could see objects around him shimmering in strange, vibrant colours...he is turning his head...at first glance the corridor is empty...but no...a man is sitting on the floor ahead, his chin drooping onto his chest, his outline gleaming in the dark. _

_Filius puts out his tongue...tastes the man's scent in the air...he was alive but drowsy...sitting in front of a door at the end of the corridor.._

_Filius longs to bite the man...but he must master the impulse...he has more important work to do..._

_But the man is stirring...a silver Cloak falls from his legs as he jumps to his feet; and Harry sees his vibrant, blurred outline towering above him, sees a wand withdrawn from a belt...he has no choice...he rears high from the floor and strikes once, twice, three times, plunging his fangs deeply into the man's flesh, feeling his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling the warm gush of blood..._

_The man is yelling in pain...then he falls silent...he slumps backward against the wall...blood is splattering onto the floor...There is another figure at the end of the hallway, but Filius has run out of time...turning, he slithers off, still tasting the blood on his fangs, the blood in the air..._

_His forehead hurts terribly...it is aching fit to burst..._

"Jone! Jone, wake up, wake up! Lydie, call the hospital, he's ill. Lydie, hurry, he's shaking and there's blood on the damn bed! Come on, Jone, you've got to wake up-wake up, dammit! Come on!" Someone is shaking him and his ribs hurt, his head banging. He feels wetness all over the bed and on his night shirt, feels the man's fingers probing around, lifitng the edge of his shirt and Filius squirms, pulling away. He can still feel the snake in him, wanting to bite, to lunge.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" he shrieks, shoving the man away. "DON'T TOUCH ME! YOU CAN'T TOUCH ME, LUCE!" he screams, feeling the windows shiver and then begin to rock, shaking in their frame. "LEAVE ME ALONE, LUCE!"

"Jone, I'm not Luce. I'm not Luce, it's David. You're with me-David. Come on Jone, dammit, wake up. Lydie, call the hospital now!"

"I am!"

Filius collapses back onto the bed, his head swimming with images of the two red-headed men in the corridor, of him snapping at one man, leaving the other horror struck. His eyes close and he is sucked into darkness again.

_**/**_

Percy shrinks away from the snake, open-mouthed, even as it lunges three times at his father, who stumbles to the floor, twitching like mad for a few seconds before slumping backwards, not moving. He is waiting for the snake to lunge at him, to stab him with piercing fangs, but it only hisses, as if it's been chastised, and slithers away. Percy collapses, leaning against the wall for a minute before clearing his head and moving towards his father.

He slips in the blood that pools around Arthur, colouring the stone floor, and stinging his nose. "Dad? Dad, are you okay?" he asks, hysteria cracking his voice. Of course his father isn't okay-he's bleeding all over the floor of the Ministry, his face getting paler by the second as Percy stands there, frozen, his mind turned to mush as he thinks through the fog clouding his mind.

"I'm going to send a Patronus to Mum," Percy says, but there is no one to hear him. Arthur has passed out, his breath ragged. The hallway is empty. "Right. Uh." He tries to think of something happy, something good. He recalls getting his Hogwarts letter, when he became a Prefect, being accepted into the Ministry, being promoted so young, but none of them seem happy enough. Finally, thinking back to Sixth Year, he recalls the way his heart had jumped, watching Harry and Ron drag a bloody, but _alive_, Ginny into the Hospital Wing, all three looking rather weary but happy enough to be safe and under the care of adults.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" A weasel bounds away from the edge of his wand, curling and smoking. "_Mum, Dad has been hurt. Send help, quickly. G-_" here he chokes, nearly ruining the spell. "_Get Dumbledore. Dad has been hurt. Send help. Quickly, Mum, send help. We're at the Ministry!_" He sinks to the ground, ripping his cloak off, ignoring his mind squawking that it had costs seventy-five Galleons, and quickly ties it around his father's ribs, watching in dismay as the blood soaks through the soft blue in a matter of seconds.

Sobbing, Percy holds his father's body, alone except for the dying man, as they both lie in the hallway, waiting. Waiting.

_**/**_

A silvery, smoky weasel lands on the table of Grimmauld Place, Number Twelve, thoroughly startling Remus Lupin, who is, or rather _was_, nibbling absent-mindedly at a Chocolate Frog as Molly Weasley bustled in a corner, preparing a meal for the members of the Order staying, at least, for supper. Unfortunately, this number seems to drop every day, as less and less people found themselves able to rest for more than a few minutes, rushing to save a Muggle here, or capture a Death Eater there only to lose them because Fudge refused to accept that Death Eaters are running rampant once more.

"_Mum_," says the weasel in Percy Weasley's voice, something Remus only heard a few times in class, when the obstinate Seventh Year had commented upon a teaching method of Remus'. Remus recalled that Percy hadn't ever been very fond of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Behind him, Molly spins around, gaping, and rushing over to the table.

"_Dad has been hurt. Send help, quickly. G-_" the voice breaks off for a second, as if someone is choking. "_Get Dumbledore. Dad has been hurt. Send help. Quickly, Mum, send help. We're at the Ministry!_"

"Oh Merlin!" Molly gasps, turning to Remus. "Can you Floo Dumbledore? Remus!" she snaps, and Remus lunges to his feet, hurtling towards the fireplace. A few minutes later, Albus Dumbledore lands gracefully in the fireplace, telling Molly that Minerva and Remus would get her kids, before Apparating off once more.

Still rather shocked, Remus stepped into the fireplace once again, his head and body spinning as he lands in the fireplace of Dumbledore's office, quickly scrambling down the stairs, hurrying towards what he hopes is still Minerva McGonagall's office is the same as when he was in Hogwarts and had been regularly sent down there with James and Sirius, feeling rather embarrassed.

He bangs on the door, ignoring the stitch in his side.

"Mr. Lupin, what in the name of Merlin are you doing here?" McGonagall demands, wearing a taffeta dressing gown, her hair in curlers. "It's midnight, nearly. What's going on?"

"Arthur...hurt...Albus...gone to get him...supposed to...collect...kids." Remus gasps, leaning against the wall, sweating profusely.

"What do you mean, Arthur's hurt? What' happened to him?" But Remus could not find enough air to force an explaintion out, bending over and inhaling deeply as he was. McGonagall tapped him on the back for a minute before helping him stand up straight. "Come on, Lupin, let's go." she insists, very much the professor. They walk the familiar path that leads to the portrai of the Fat Lady, who everyone knows is the only thing keeping any random Slytherin from breaking into the Common Room.

"Baubles," says McGonagall firmly, clmabering through the portrait hole, Remus right after. "You fetch Ron, Fred, and George. Tell them nothing except that they are going to Grimmauld Place. How are they getting there, Lupin?" McGonagall has reverted back to his surname, making both feel as if it is twenty years ago and he's still a naughty student caught out of bed.

Shaking his head, Remus says "Floo, in Dumbledore's office. He's connected it for an hour, no more."

"Very well. You must hurry, Lupin."

Remus nods and sprints up the stairs, quickly waking Ron and the twins. They leave their stuff, Remus promising it would be brought to Grimmauld later. They hurry back down the stairs to meet McGonagall and Ginny, who wears an over-sized bathrobe and has a determined look on her face.

"Tell me what happened!" she demands, looking at her brothers. "Tell me! I'm tired of being treated like a little girl-what's going on?"

"We don't know, Gin. Professor Lupin just woke us up a few minutes ago."

"Not Professor Lupin," Remus mutters to himself before waving them throught the portrai hole and to Dumbledore's office wordlessly, except when McGonagall gives the stone gargoyles the password.

"Come on, then," she says, leading them to the fireplace. "Hurry up, we've got ten minutes before it closes. Go on."

Remus goes last, his body spinning as green flames lick painlessly at his elbows. He lands on the kitchen floor of Number Twelve, standing up to see a rahter somber-faced Albus Dumbledore sitting at the table.

"No!" Ron yells, lunging at the door, leaving it swinging, as the other five occupants of the kitchen stand in shock. They can still hear him yelling, his voice quickly joined by Mrs. Black, Sirius' mum.

"Dad! Mum! Dad! _Dad!_"

"Filthy half-breeds and blood traitors, filthy, filthy, dirtying up the house of my forefathers..."

"_Where's my dad?_"

_**/**_

_**You know what I find funny? When people misspell spells while writing. Like this: "Almohamora! (Alohamora)" Lily said, listening to the door click and chirp as it opened." (Not an actual quote) Just out of curiosity, if she says it like that, what happens? Because now I really, really want to see someone mispronounce a spell like that, the way we misspell the spells, and see the effects. Shame magic isn't real. I'd be all for testing that. **_


	21. Recover

_**Come on, I wouldn't leave something unresolved, would I? Would I? How could I kill off Arthur Weasley?! Besides, I just went through my email folder marked 'Ultimum' and noted that I now officially have 254 (TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY FOUR!) emails relating to the story! 59 (fifty-nine) reviews, 99 (ninety-nine) followers, 40 (forty) favorites and 25, 463 (twenty-five thousand, four hundred and sixty-three) views and counting! Gosh, you guys! I didn't know you liked the story THIS much. I'm blushing. And how do I reward you? By making you wait forever because I have had the crappiest writer's block ever, of course! Of course, my internet was being HIGHLY unhelpful by messing up every five minutes (and then just giving up forever. We've gone through 4 Nerd Squads and three new modems) and then we had thunderstorms for forever...says. And this chapter is SUPER short (well, it was when I started writing this author's note), which doesn't make me feel ANY better. Oh, and don't even get me STARTED on marching band! **_

_**St. Mungo's scene based off the one in the book, but I slightly changed the events to fit MY story. **_

_**/**_

When Ron was five years old, he went to St. Mungo's for the first time in his life that he could remember. An aunt of his father's, aging and, Mum had said, dying of dragon pox. Ron barely knew the woman, only recalling that she liked to give out mints to small, eager hands and smelled oddly of the beach all the time, as if she'd just come back from another one of her grand trips to the ocean that she liked to take.

He remembered walking into the overly-white building, clutching Percy's hand on one side and Ginny's on the other. The way Healers rushed by everywhere, talking quickly over their heads about things Ron didn't quite understand. The way everyone wore somber expressions, as if someone had just died. How there seemed to only be pictures of very old men and women with lacy collars and grumpy looks on their faces, always frowning, commenting on Ron's hair and offering remedies for his freckles. Ron had scowled at everyone, telling the Healers that _no, he didn't want a sucker, thank you. _And, _yes, he felt okay, why do you want to know?_

Seeing the auntie, tucked away into a corner of the hospital room, she looked so pale and fragile, like the bird Ginny had had to bury last Tuesday. It scared Ron more than anything he'd ever seen before. In that moment, she wasn't the distant auntie he barely recognised, she was a very familiar face-practically his own mother's-and she was dying, just waiting to breathe her last so that she could leave Ron behind to cry. She didn't seem to smell of the beach anymore, her smell seeped in the horrid medicine scent of St. Mungo's. Suddenly, he realised why everyone seemed to sad. This must be the place old or sick people went to die.

Now, ten years later, at fifteen, Ron knows not everyone at St. Mungo's dies, but it still unnerves him to see all the sick people rushed by on beds, or to see a man walk by with his hands transfigured into teapots. It didn't help that it wasn't just an aging, distant auntie that he is visiting, but his own _dad_, who is only forty-five. To know that it was _Percy_ of all people who had saved his father, after months of not a word from his older brother seems only like a slap to the face. A punch to the stomach. Fate, mocking him. _Look what we did_, like small children, eager to please in the wrong way. _We helped, but not the way you wanted. We brought your family together at your father's expense. We saved your father because your brother, the one you hate, saved him. Aren't you pleased? _

But Ron had promised his mother not to say anything rude when he sees Percy, because Percy has saved Dad, which apparently meant anything he'd ever done wrong was forgiven. It might even be a chance to convince his brother of You-Know-Who's existence and to give up on the lying, foul Ministry. On the other hand, perhaps Percy had only acted as a son protecting his father and has no current interest in anything his family has to say about Dark Lords or corrupt Ministries. Perhaps Ron _ought _to punch him in the nose, or at least prepare for the possibility and strong desire to do so. His hands tingle as he imagines attacking his brother, telling him off for leaving them and making Mum cry and then just suddenly _waltzing _back into their life like nothing has ever happened. Well, to Ron, it won't be so easy to forget the way his brother turned away. It won't be so easy to forget the birthday present sent back, not even touched. It won't be easy to forget the hatred he feels.

Ahead of him, Fred and George whisper to each other about something, ignoring the disapproving glances from their mother. It is common knowledge that the twins want to do little more than own a joke shop, not that Molly Weasley has given them her approval or blessing. But they're seventeen now and rarley listen to their mother, as if they ever really had. Ginny, who had been trailing behind, suddenly speeds up, placing her small, calloused hand in his, like when they were kids. Ron looks down at her, confused.

"He's going to be okay, right? Daddy's going to live?" Ginny rarely ever called Dad "Daddy". She hadn't really called him that in years. But when she is nervous or anxious, like now, she reverted back to her days of childhood. Ron half-expects her to start chewing on the ends of her braids like she did up until the summer before her first year, when she had decided to 'grow up'.

"Of course."

"Here we are!" Molly announces in a much too cheery voice, opening the door to a seemingly identical wooden door, leading to an identical white room with five beds. Ron closes his eyes, pretending for a moment that he's only come to visit the great-aunt, not his father. He pretends that he hasn't come to see his father wrapped up in bandages, or nearly dead.

"Are you okay?" asks Ginny, tightening her grip around his. He opens his eyes and nods, trying to summon the bravery and courage of a Gryffindor.

_It's just your dad in St. Mungo's, Ron. It's not like you have to fight a dragon. It's not like you have to bury your own dad, or Harry, or Hermione. _

Inside the room, his father sits, pushed into a sitting position by four pillows, his elbows propped on the table in front of him as he scans through the Daily Prophet. His eyes seem almost glazed over, occasionally wincing in pain when he jostles about slightly. Ron carefully avoids looking at the bandages wrapping around his father's waist and upper chest.

The ward is rather dingy, with only a small, narrow window. There is a picture of a rather vicious looking wizard named Urquhart Rackharrow, but when the painting's owner swivels around to glare at Ron, he looks away, towards the other patients in the room.

There were only two others-a man looking rather green and sickly, and a woman with her hand in a bandage.

"Hello, Arthur," says Molly, bustling over and lightly kissing her husband on the cheek. "How are you? You look a bit peaky, perhaps I should call an aid to get you some food or-"

"I feel perfectly fine, Molly. More than fine. You've just missed Bill, however. Left a few minutes ago. Says he'll drop by for supper, probably, later." He hugs Ginny with one arm. "Wish they'd take the bandages off so I could go home."

"Why can't they?" asks Fred.

"Bleeds like mad whenever we do." he says cheerfully, conjuring six plush chairs for them to sit in. "Some sort of poison in the fang, I think. It keeps the wound open and they can't seem to figure it out. Oh well, I suspect it will all get sorted out in a few days. There's been worse than mine and I only have to take a Blood-Replenishing potion every few hours and so. But the fellow over there," he points towards the sick looking man with a sad look. "Bitten by a werewolf, poor chap. No chance for him at all. No cure, either, you know."

"A werewolf?" Mum looks alarmed. "Is that safe, in a public ward? Shouldn't he be in a private room?"

"Still two weeks to full moon, Molly dear. Don't worry. They've been talking to him this morning, about being a werewolf, trying to persuade him he'll learn a nearly normal life and such. I said to him-didn't mention names, of course-but I said that I know a werwolf personally, very nice man, who finds the condition rather simple to manage."

"What'd did he do?"

"Said he'd bite me if I didn't shut my mouth." ;laughs Dad, smiling at his wife's nervous look. "It's okay, Molly, I'm fine. Besides, I'll be out soon enough-hopefully by Christmas time-and we can all laugh about this later."

Mum didn't seem to approve much of this idea, pursing her lips and sending the four of them off for tea, so that the two of them, along with Tonks, who has just appeared in the doorway, can talk.

"Where's the tea supposed to be, then?" asks George, looking around for a sign.

"Fifth floor, I think," Ginny replies and they all set off, no one very eager for tea, but all rather desperate to get away from the smell of illness and death. They head up the stairs, not talking.

"What floor is this?" asks Ginny, looking around.

"Fifth." says George

"No, fourth." replies Fred.

"Definitely fifth."

"It's the-"

"Will you two sod off?" Ron snaps, pointing at a sign. "It's the fourth." Fred smirks.

"Who is that?" asks Ginny, pointing at someone down the corridor, waiting, it seems, just outside one of the wards, shuffling around.

"Neville? Hey, Nev!" Ron calls, and an embarrassed looking Neville Longbottom glances up and waves.

"Hullo, Ron. Ginny. Um.." Neville greets them, looking unsurely at Ron's brothers. Neville had never been too great with names.

"Fred and George." says one of the twins.

"Or Gred and Forge." says the other.

"We don't mind, really." they say in unison.

"Why are you here, Neville?" asks Ron.

"Oh." he looks nervous, glancing inside the ward again. "Just visiting a relative is all. Why are you here?"

"Our dad got hurt," says Ginny. "We were getting tea, would you like some?"

"Uh, no thanks. My gran will probably be coming out any minute. I should wait for her. See you later, though."

"Okay. Well, see you."

"Hey, Ron?" Neville says, and Ron looks back at him.

"Yeah?"

"About Harry. I hope you got what you wanted, getting out of his shadow." Neville's eyes have gone hard, and Ron frowns, trying to figure out what he's done wrong.

They wave good-bye and head up the last staircase, Ron bewildered by the sight of a white-haired woman he had seen in the doorway. She looked like Neville, but certainly _wasn't _his grandmother. Shaking his head, Ron follows after his sister, suddenly very desperate for a cup of tea, just to get the worries and thoughts out of his head for a few minutes. Just a few minutes, that's all he needs. A few minutes to not think. Because, believe or not, Ron Weasley has a lot of thoughts in his head.

_**/**_

_Excerpt the Daily Prophet, December 16, 1995, Jeanna Grinkle_

"_Harry Potter, age 15, has been reported dead for several months now, but the events behind his tragic death is still mostly unkown. Whether it was murder, at his own hands, or just a simple accident is still up to speculation. But one source claims that he knows the truth. He wishes to remain anonymous, but here is his claim:_

"_Last year, when Potter was signed up for the TriWizard tournament-supposedly against his will-Weasley, the boy's friend panicked. He (Ron Weasley) always felt like he was living in his friend's shadow, like he wasn't good enough to stand out on his own. And even before that, people have thought that Ron Weasley felt a little disgruntled at his friend's fame, when he got none of it, no recgonition. Is it possible the fifteen year old killed, or had someone kill, Harry Potter for him? I think so. I mean, why does Dumbledore seem to have such a special interest in him? For that matter, why do the Weasleys? Everyone knows that family is poor. Did they kill the boy for his money?We can't rule out the possibility."_

_The Minister Fudge today decided to look further into this claim, but has not contacted the Weasleys, as the father of the family, Arthur Weasley, age 45, is currently at St. Mungo's for injuries we are not currently aware of."_

_**/**_

She slumps against the wall, ignoring the sick moanings of Jeffrey, one of the older ones, a Muggle married to a witch, who lurches in the corner, hurling the little food in his stomach onto the floor. Her brown hair, usually frizzy, has gone limp and almost dead. She's lost drastic amounts of weight, her cheeks hollowing, her stomach always rumbling. Everywhere, she sees nothing but dying children, too tired to even run from beatings that only leave them bloody and raw. She sees elderly, who slump to the ground, their chest pausing as Death Eaters kick cheerfully at the quickly cooling bodies. Everyone is alone here. Suffering from their own nightmares, they turn away with shielded eyes and shuttered hearts.

She, just a few hours ago, watched as a small girl, no older than ten, died marching. She had watched the girl struggling through the snow, gasping and pausing every few minutes to throw up. And then she tripped over a stray branch and fallen, too weak to get up. The girl had called out them, begged for someone to help her, but the threat of Death Eaters kept everyone at a distance. Even Hermione kept walking, turned away, ignoring the pleas behind her. She listened as someone picked her up and laughed that she was dead before they got to her.

Hermione is no better than her own captors. She allowed a girl to die.

_She's twelve years old, small, a First Year at Hogwarts. Hermione Granger sits alone at her desk, watching the others around her whisper to friends. Lavender and Parvati, close mates since the first day of school, ignore her, backs turned away, as they giggle and gossip, Lavender wrapping a lock of stray hair around her finger, which is a bright pink, almost teasing Hermione to come over with stories of boys she's kissed, of sleepover secrets. She has none of those, alone even as a Muggle child. _

"_Hey," says a voice next to her, sounding exasperated and slightly bored. She turns to see Harry, sitting on the edge of the seat next to her, just as young as she is, giving her a bored smile. He fidgets, gives her a look, then smiles again, more alive this time. "Hello." he says again. _

The sixteen year old Hermione frowns, recalling this day and the stupid things she had said to Harry. Said about Harry, or at least implied.

"_Hello." she replies, wondering where this is leading. Usually, the other kids, even her fellow Gryffindors, avoid her unless for advice on homework. No one ever asks how she is, or compliments her intelligence, or even really says more then 'hi'. Occasionally, the boys, Gryffindors and Slytherins, will come up to mock and tease her. Harry never seems to really participate, but she wonders if maybe that's why he's come over. "Did you want something?"_

"_No, not really," Harry says in a calm, sleepy voice. She turns to look at him, taking in his small, fragile stature, his skinny frame, the dark circles under his eyes. He almost looks like he's drowning in his robes, even if they **do **fit. He looks tired, but decently happy. "Just to say hi, I guess. Why, were you expecting something?"_

"_Oh, no. Well, hi, then." She gives him an 'if you're done here,' look, which he ignores, settling deeper into the seat, as if preparing to sit next to her all class. _

_He laughs. "Hello. How are you today?"_

"_Fine." This is bewildering. None of the boys have **ever **come over just to 'say hi'. "If that's all you wanted, I'm trying to focus on the homework. McGonagall might be here any second, and I don't want to look like I've been slacking on anything."_

"_Is that **all **you care about? Your homework?" he seems slightly disgusted, slightly put-out. _

"_Yes." she says honestly, or what she feels to be true. "Homework-education-is important. More important than...**friendships**." she waves a hand around at all the people bunched together, as if somehow **they **are at fault. "I'm sure most of them haven't done the homework assignments because they were talking to friends. Besides, if **I **were the saviour of the Wizarding World, I'd focus on my studies, not Quidditch and mates."_

"_I talk to friends. And I get my homework done." says Harry, frowning. He gets up from his seat, motioning towards where Ron Weasley and Dean Thomas sit, waiting. "But if that's all you think of me-as the 'saviour of the Wizarding World'..." he looks off at something only he can see before shrugging and turning away. "Well, I've got to go, then. Bye."_

"_Bye," she says, shaking her head at the total waste of time that conversation was. Why couldn't everyone be as driven as she was? _

She opens her eyes to see not Hogwarts, but the dark, dank room she's been living in since September. It's December now and chills wrack her body, leaving her coughing. Sometimes, these memories, played out like movies in her head, are the only connection she has to her life _before _this room. She shakes her head, remembering her childish feelings back then, when, in retaliation for everyone ignoring her, she had dove deeper into her books. It had taken nearly being killed by a mountain troll to realise friends _were _important. It had been one of the few times Hermione didn't know something that Ron had figured out years ago-surround yourself with friends. Ignore the books-at least sometimes-and make friends with people. And Harry, Hermione _still _couldn't believe she had ever said that to Harry. She should have known better, should have realised that Harry _hated, hates_,fame or titles or anything of that sort. And Hermione, at eleven, _had _known that, but had decided to use that sentence to turn him away.

_**/**_

_**That little Daily Prophet clip was a shout-out to all those 'The Weasleys and Dumbledore are plotting against Harry for his money' stories. **_

_**I fear that I have turned Ron into the closest thing I can get to comic release, which upsets me b/c I feel as if he's played comic relief in the books/movies/most of the fanfiction universe over the years. It's not how I really pictured him, but I guess it's going to happen sometimes. (sigh) I have failed myself. **_

_**Anyway, my bedroom has felt REALLY hot recently and I kept getting sick (like throwing-up sick) and this has been going on since Saturday, so my mom came into my room today for the first time in a while and her first words are "Whoa! Everything just got, like, ten degrees hotter." This is the third or fourth time that my room has done this over the summer, increasingly getting hotter while the rest of the house stays relatively cool. Basically, my room hates me and has been making me sick, because my life is just soooooo wonderful. Do you ever get that feeling, where everything seems to just be giving up and falling apart? That's how I feel right now. **_


End file.
